Tarnished Gold
by Cairn Destop
Summary: The Mockingjay Rebellion succeeded, the old Capital District laid in ruins, and President Snow died. The Districts anticipated a new golden age. Anticipation and reality clashed.
1. THE TRAIN RIDE HOME

A HISTORY LESSON

During the Third Quell, a second civil war erupted. History would call it the Mockingjay Rebellion. Thanks to the support of District Thirteen, a District all thought eliminated in the first civil war, the rebels had a realistic chance at defeating the Capital District. Their efforts proved successful. As victors, the Districts decided to hold one more Hunger Game. Referred to as The Justice Game, it should have sated the District's need for retribution.

It failed to assuage their anger. The District populace demanded blood, lots of it. The Justice Game had a second year, a third year, and still the people were not satisfied. By the time of the Tenth Justice Game, the connection between oppressor and the selected tribute became a murky one at best. Another solution had to be found.

Even as the tributes mounted their platforms for that game, the Government in District Thirteen decided to reintroduce the Hunger Game. The victorious Districts wanted to exact their ultimate revenge on their oppressors. Only the defeated Capital District would submit their young to this blood sport.

After enduring seventy-five years of the Hunger Games, every District citizen knew its horrors. Satisfaction demanded the old Capital suffer even more. Tributes now came as young as ten, innocents led to a cruel slaughter most could not comprehend. Since the conquered district encompassed almost twice as much land as any other district, they increased the number of tributes from twenty-four to thirty-six. As a concession to fairness, the victorious districts gave the selected tributes more time for training. It turned the actual games into an even bloodier affair than the old Hunger Games.

Panem could ill afford another civil war. The rise of the Career tribute led to a viable fighting force for the Districts. The rules were changed to eliminate the option of volunteering. The new government realized every survivor represented a potential symbol of opposition to their rule. Now winners lived in a special community in District Thirteen, as far removed from the old Capital as possible.

Their efforts worked. The other districts found this the bloody vengeance they desired. Like the old Capital, the populace fell in love with the spectacle. What the rebellion leaders envisioned as a one-time event turned into an annual happening. These new Capital Hunger Games played out each year, many in the same venues as the original games. Some took place in special locations, built or modified to entertain the bloodlust of the victors. Regardless of the setting, the horror of the original Hunger Game came to the conquered Capital District. It continues today.

xxxxx

He couldn't sleep. Rest eluded him regardless of what he did. With no other option, he swung his legs off the bed and stood within his compartment. He approached the door and opened it.

He stepped beyond the confines of his room, he looked left and right. The train's corridor was empty. Based on the clock, it didn't surprise him. Nobody should be awake at this hour, and yet he prowled the hallway. Either direction held no advantage, so he turned right. That such a simple choice, left or right, should take on a life defining role terrified him.

His progress through the corridor made him feel like the town drunk. The train's movement did that. The slight sway from side to side was something he still found disorienting. His family said they never noticed it. The train's crew were so use to the rocking motion that they walked in a counter sway that gave them a sense of floating across the thick carpeting.

A stairway beckoned him. He paused at the base, not sure why he hesitated. Clarity came to him. If he climbed these steep steps, it would require two hands. For the span of however many steps existed between this level and the next, he would be vulnerable to any sudden attack.

In a perverse way, a climb to the upper level would confirm his status. It would also represent a step forward, one that placed his recent past further back in time. It was a chance to recapture a normal existence, something he both feared and desired.

His bare foot landed on the first step. He grabbed the railing with his left hand, reluctant to leave himself vulnerable. A deep breath to calm his nerves and he grasped the second railing. He counted the steps as he ascended. When he focused his mind on the count, his fears diminished.

Fourteen steps to the upper floor. It seemed providential. Each step represented a year in his life. That final step turned into a milestone. So much happened on that last step. It overshadowed everything that came before it. Yet he realized one does not reach the uppermost step without first passing those lower ones.

When he gazed out the sky-car's window, he saw nothing in detail. Night does that to one's vision. It turns things close to the train into a dark kaleidoscope of shapes. At their speed, it all resembled nothing more than a momentary smudge outside his window, distant and detached. It made him compare this to his prior existence, a blur. Some events remained too vivid. How he wished those might disappear like the countryside.

Stability came when he gazed towards the night sky. How many times had he looked to the heavenly lights, wondering what marvels were hidden. Adults told him the night sky held constellations, formations that contained pictures. Teachers pointed to a group of stars and called it the great bear. Still another formation described a dog. He recalled dippers, rams, fishes, and others that blurred in his memory. It didn't matter, he never could see anything, even when the teachers drew the lines in class.

A cannon boomed. His heart raced; somewhere near, danger lurked. His right hand moved with the speed of a hummingbird as it reached for his weapon. The hand struck nothing more protective than fabric. He stood unarmed and unprotected in a hostile place. He crouched, ready for open handed combat. His enemy must be near. He faced the sound that had alerted him to possible danger.

"Good morning, Victor. Or should I say good evening? It is after midnight, so either is correct. Would you have a preference, Sir?"

His heart no longer raced, though every nerve in his body tingled. No cannon had boomed, it was nothing more threatening than the closing of a door. In the silence of the room, even the click of the door's latch morphed into the one sound he couldn't purge from his memory. How long would that sound dominate his every action?

The intruder stood behind the counter wearing the uniform of the train's crew. The oriental man stood as tall as his father, but had a greater girth. He couldn't call the porter fat, so he needed a word somewhere between the two extremes. Husky would suffice. The fellow posed no danger to him.

"My name is not Victor, and at my age, the title Sir sounds wrong when spoken by an adult." He wanted to emphasize his words with a tint of anger, but his voice chose that inopportune moment to break. His youth betrayed him.

"Victor," said the porter, "is your title. You are the winner in the latest Capital Hunger Game. That deserves either the honorific of Victor or the respect Sir implies."

"Do me a favor, when we are alone, drop both. I'm tired, cannot sleep, and your unexpected entrance didn't help. How did you know I was even here?"

The oriental man patted the bar in front of him, his unspoken command quite clear. As he approached the chair, the porter placed a china cup and saucer on the wooden bar. He turned his back on him and when he faced him a second time, he held a teapot. Steam rose as he poured.

A lemon scent drew him closer. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his body. All it took was a sip to find contentment. A quick glance into the mirror behind the bar confirmed his suspicion, he wore a smile. Perhaps the first genuine smile since this all started. Tensions melted with each sip. He savored every drop, grateful the porter allowed him solitude while he drank.

The porter wiped the counter after retrieving the empty cup. "The bottom step and top one have a pressure plate. Six hidden motion detectors sweep this room, and a series of lasers makes it impossible for something larger than a tomato to enter this car. When the alarm sounded, I took the porter's stairway to the back room. This is my station and I am here to serve you."

"I don't need a servant. I want somebody I can talk to without judgment and without the coddling parents give. The Game is impossible to describe to outsiders, and nobody else knows what it's like. Sole survivor eliminates everyone else." He drank a second cup of the tea, pleased the porter said nothing more. "Do you have kids? If you do, maybe you'll understand why I need an adult, but not an adult I know or who knows me."

"You are in luck. I have a son a year younger and identical twin daughters a year older than you. My girls ride this train, hoping they might catch a glimpse of the Victor or one of the many mentors. So I understand the need for a confidant."

"Bring your daughters here tomorrow at this time. I think they might help me forget and remember. A strange contradiction, but it's as real as the night sky. Can you do that?"

The porter's smile seemed as much an answer as he intended to give. He stood, thanked the porter for his time and left. He retraced his steps back to his compartment. Like the walk to the bar, he met none on his journey. When he flopped back on his bed, sleep immediately claimed him.

An alarm sounded and he disabled it. During the day, he sat with his parents and listened to them talk about the future. He tried showing enthusiasm, but his father's frown showed he knew he faked it. When he claimed to be tired, his parents did not contradict him, but allowed him to return to his room. He set the alarm for the time he awoke last night.

He found the porter and his two daughters at the bar. The twins were in every way identical in appearance. The same dress, same shoes, same hair style, and the same giggle when he entered the room. No doubt the father had instructed them not to fawn over him, of course they did just that with their eyes. He wondered if he could ever consider such behavior normal. Did the game destroy him in ways he couldn't comprehend?

He sat at a table, and pointed to the other chairs. The girls rushed to either side. When the father placed a cup of lemon tea before him, he asked the porter to take the last empty chair. He did so, but said he must stand if anybody else approached the car. If that happened, he would resume his role as servant. Strange as it sounded, his actions proved his willingness to maintain his role as confidant. It gave him a reason to hope.

"I'm sure you watched the game." Both girls nodded as they shifted their chairs closer. "What you saw isn't everything. We have another twelve hours before reaching our final destination. Let me tell you a story, and when it's done, perhaps I can live with myself."


	2. OUR MALE TRIBUTE IS

Richard raced down the hallway until he reached his locker. His fingers worked the lock combination without any conscience thought, the numbers etched into his memory. A flick of the wrist and the door opened. His jacket went in first and his brown-bagged lunch went onto the upper shelf.

A glance at the calendar showed today's schedule as Number Three. He checked the list of classes. English, math, geography, and study hall before lunch. No gym class today, so he wouldn't have to brave the elements. With his luck, if he had gym, the rains predicted for tomorrow would arrive a day early. Maybe the upcoming weekend would offer something better than chores, but with the anticipated storm, his expectations remained at a dismal low.

He took his seat and waited for the opening routine. Other students wandered into the classroom. Several girls congregated by an open window, their whispered conversations turning into giggles every time somebody entered the room, regardless of their sex. He couldn't tolerate such gossipy girls, but two were members of the cheerleading squad and considered the hottest prospects in the class. No girl would consider dating anyone without first getting their stamp of approval and no boy without checking their prospect's social status.

Two rows over, Brutus strutted to his seat. With more muscles than any bodybuilder, the guy was considered a babe magnet. However, Brutus's status went into the toilet after the coach dropped him from the football team. Richard did the unthinkable by replacing him on the school's team roster. His glare told Richard all had not been forgiven. He still blamed him for everything that happened this year.

Was it his fault that his father divorced his mother? Did he have any say over his father's move to this area? Could anyone blame him for pumping iron during the summer and taking lots of endurance training so he might make the school's team? Wasn't it the coach who made the final call? Based on the glares he got from some of the other players, the answer was yes. Even winning the District Championship didn't change their opinions.

The clock's minute hand clicked ahead to the ten-of mark. Right on cue the PA system came to life, filling the room with a metallic screech. The sound proved loud enough to catch everyone's attention without grating on your nerves. At least that was one consistency between this school and his former one.

"Attention all students, today's classes have been cancelled. Everyone will be dismissed after the mandatory Reaping Day orientation lecture. A new class calendar will be distributed showing Monday as Schedule Three. Teachers will now distribute your verification envelopes."

Richard retrieved his envelope and returned to his desk. The verification card said thirteen. Just his luck to be born ten minutes after midnight of the cut-off date. His brother was born half an hour earlier. That time difference made his brother fourteen, at least for the games. He couldn't fight the government, so his eligibility began a year after his brother and would end a year later than him.

At least he had some good news. No doubt his facial expression caught the attention of Brutus. The wad of paper landing on his desk told him that much.

"So what's got you so happy," Brutus asked.

"I got my first choice for the orientation lecture. They have me scheduled for the first session across the street at the elementary school. I'll be home enjoying the day while you're stuck here waiting."

"You wanted to be with all those snot-nosed first year dorks? What a looser."

"At least I'll not be stuck here until mid-afternoon staring at pea-green walls."

Brutus didn't have time to reply. The lecture started five minutes after the hour. Richard flashed his hall authorization to the teacher and left. Certain the teacher wasn't looking, he gave Brutus the finger as he exited the room. That made him happy. He grabbed his coat and lunch, returned his books, and raced across the athletic field.

As he expected, every ten year old sat in class order across the middle section. He stayed near the back since he knew the routine. Unless these kids had lots of questions, he would be out the door in under fifteen minutes.

The government official opened the lecture with the mandatory film. He than told them how the Mockingjay Revolution made the Capital District responsible for supplying all tributes. Since their District had more land than any two other Districts combined, they broke the Capital into eighteen sectors. Two tributes from each for a total of thirty-six participants.

"For those of you who studied history," said the government official, "these games are not like the earlier ones sponsored by the Capital. The first major difference is that the eligible age for tributes has been reduced to ten. One male and one female is chosen from every age. That makes eighteen by age and eighteen at random. Tonight's news broadcast at 2100 hours will present the lottery. If your age group is chosen, or if this sector is an open draw, you must report on Sunday to Reaping Park. If your age group isn't selected, then the odds were with you. Line up at the four exits for DNA verification, and then you're dismissed."

Richard slipped out of his seat. Only four other students beat him to the line. In less than a minute, he had his finger pricked, his blood drop donated, his ID verified, and his tracker bracelet attached. The rest of the day was his to enjoy. As he fastened the last button of his jacket, the first drops of rain fell. So much for the forecasted sunny day.

Talk about out of it. The divorce really messed with my mind. How could I forget the date? Reaping Day always came two weeks after my birthday?

Richard sat on the bus, staring beyond the window. The rains fell, changing from the light drizzle when he left school to something a bit heavier. Perhaps his father's move and a brother who decided to stay with his mother affected him more than he cared to admit.

His stop came and the heavens decided to double its intensity, nothing he could do about that. He jogged from the bus stop to his home as he raced the storm. It didn't help. The rains came down with a vengeance, soaking him to the skin.

By the time he reached home, he resembled a drowned puppy. With no hesitation, he pushed through the door. Good thing the key didn't give him any troubles like it tended to do when he rushed. He went straight to his room and changed into something dry. Discarded papers went into his wet shoes, which he hoped wouldn't shrink. His feet already felt two sizes too big, but his father didn't want to spring for the new sneakers.

In prior years, he and his brother speculated about the probabilities while they waited for the arrival of their parents. With three schools in their sector and each school having almost a hundred students of the same age, they figured their odds at one in three hundred if their age was chosen. If they had a general call, the odds became better than two in two thousand. They liked those odds.

So far, random chance favored him. They took a specific age group in each of the prior years and never his. Richard's brother had an open draw the first year when he was ten. As luck had it, another kid his age had the misfortune of being chosen. This year, thanks to the divorce, his brother would be in Sector Seven while he would await the selection choice for Sector Sixteen. He wondered how that affected his odds, something his academically superior brother could tell him.

Best he adhere to the standard routine. Richard knew enough about cooking to get the water boiling before his father's arrival. He tuned in the news station. For now, the news commentators mentioned nothing more exciting than the anticipated harvest news and a recent weather related disaster on the east coast. It didn't affect him so the moderator's voice faded into the background.

A slamming door announced his father's arrival. Five minutes later, the kitchen filled with the smells of food cooking on the stove. Conversations touched the usual topics, events in school or his father's office. Richard showed his father the tracker and told him which age group was his. His father responded with nothing more than a grunt.

They moved all the food into the front room since that was the location of the television. The government allowed just one network in the Capital District, the news channel. All of the other accessible channels were specific to some official report or issue.

Certain broadcasts were mandatory viewing. These programs were telecasted over a special channel and a spy device installed in the television verified compliance. With less than a minute to go, they switched from the general news broadcast to the Capital Hunger Game channel.

"You never had to attend a Reaping, did you Dad," Richard asked.

"That's true. Every year I was eligible our sector was age specific, and never mine. I'm hoping your luck continues and they keep picking an age other than yours. Oh look, the announcer is coming onstage."

The commentator took his place while assistants moved four machines behind him. At his command, one assistant released a series of balls into each device. A second assistant moved in the tally board. The host remained at his post and waited. At a signal from somebody beyond the camera's range, the show started.

"Welcome to the 50th Capital Hunger Game Lottery. The first two machines have the eighteen sector numbers, one for the girls and one for boys. The last two machines will either designate a specific age or an open call. The balls are numbered ten through eighteen. The other balls are blank, which is an open draw where all ages are eligible. Now that we have explained the lottery, let the games begin."

Richard didn't care too much about the girls, other than his sector. It didn't affect him as he didn't know any of the girls in his class. If he were in Sector Seven, it might be different but not here. The ball for his sector came up blank. An open draw for the girls, which meant all eligible female tributes would assemble at Reaping Park. So many traveling to the same site would be a transportation nightmare.

Than they announced the boys. His brother's section came out first. Fortune shined on him as it was an open draw. With more than a thousand candidates, he didn't worry too much. Good fortune always smiled on his brother. Near the end of the selection, the ball with his sector bounced to the top. Disaster came in the announcement that his sector would be an age specific one. That it would be those aged thirteen caused him to drop his fork. He would be in the crowd awaiting the announcement.

Nothing could ruin a homework-free weekend. At least Richard thought so before last night's lottery. The rains ended by midday, but a bright sun didn't clear the clouds hanging over his future.

His father remained silent. They did their weekend chores, but without the usual banter. Richard couldn't think of anything worthy of a conversation. Every topic seemed unimportant when the upcoming Reaping could change his entire life. He might be confident about his chances, but that didn't dispel the fear.

Reaping Day saw the dawn break with a clear sky and a bright sun. Richard couldn't decide if that foretold good news or signaled something else. Like yesterday, neither of them spoke through the morning meal. With breakfast done, he left the house.

An old bicycle leaned against the house. He stood at the gate, unsure which would be better. He could take public transportation, but would have to endure all the stares from his fellow commuters. Pity he wouldn't accept from elders traveling wherever. To gaze into the eyes of those facing the lottery would make him feel even more depressed.

Somehow, pumping the pedals kept his mind off the trip. He could arrive early, find a comfortable spot, and once they chose someone, return home. Maybe he could do something special. A bakery might be nice, or the outdoor cafe he passed. A celebratory lunch, now that appealed to him.

The timing proved providential, neither too early nor too late. With the bike chained to an iron fence, he approached the sign-in area. His name, as well as all the eligible tributes, were already bouncing around the huge drum. He just needed the local Peacekeepers to confirm his arrival. To do that, he need only wave his tracking bracelet over a scanner.

A voice called out. "Well if isn't the dweeb-loving newbie. See you found your way here all by yourself."

"So what time did you get out, Brutus? If it was in the afternoon, I'm surprised you didn't drown in the rain."

"You come in and I lose my spot on the first string team. Doesn't matter if you led us to the championship, you're an outsider, and always will be. Even if the rules allowed volunteers, none of your classmates would save your worthless butt if your name is drawn."

"Brutus, you're the very reason why the government changed the rules. They don't want anyone turning into a future troublemaker. Though if you're selected, I would think your chances of winning quite high."

The class thug hesitated, no doubt mulling over the idea. "What makes you say that?"

"You're as tall as any sixteen year old. As a football linebacker, you outweigh most by a good fifty pounds, and have the stamina of a track star. Put a weapon in your hands and you would mow down the competition."

That kind of compliment kept Brutus silent. Richard used the bully's confusion to relocate to another area of the park. He had a good view of the stand and was within the reception range for his bracelet. Without Brutus acting like an irritating insect, he tried to enjoy the wait.

His finger fondled the bracelet. A necessary addition when the Capital Hunger Games first started. After the government official announced the names of the selected tributes, everyone scattered. It took a full week locating the tributes, which did nothing more than delay the inevitable.

Challenge the leaders, and they react. Now, the government insisted all eligible tributes wear a numbered tracking bracelet. If your name was selected, instead of dignifying you by name, the government official punched in the tribute's bracelet number. The bright glow alerted any nearby Peacekeeper. Escape or evasion no longer existed as an option.

Such a large pool of eligible names required something more complicated than a hand in a fishbowl. A huge acrylic tumbler mixed the balls containing every eligible tribute's name. Five minutes before the drawing, the government official randomly removed a hundred balls, which he placed in a fishbowl. Then he placed the bowl on the table. From that bowl, one name would emerge.

When the hour struck, a second government official approached the microphone. A burst of static assailed those in the area when the gentleman switched on the mike. It must be a common characteristic of sound systems everywhere. He stood there for several moments, reached into the red bowl, drew out a ball, and repeated the procedure with the blue balls. He unsealed the red ball.

"For the girls, Sector Sixteen's representative is . . . Darleen 17866."

Peacekeepers had to assist the girl. Based on nothing more than her height, Richard guessed her age as ten. So young a tribute seldom survived long in the Game. She climbed up the stairs like a condemned criminal going to the gallows. It seemed an apt description. Even from where he sat, he could hear the girl's sobs.

"For the boys, Sector Sixteen's representative is . . . Richard 22063."

The name caught his attention. His mind went blank as he tried recalling the number etched on his bracelet. After reading it as many times as he did yesterday, he should know it. No need to check his memory; the bright glow said it all. Out of three or four hundred possible tributes, they selected him.

Richard understood now how the girl must feel. A quick glance around the park confirmed what he knew. Two Peacekeepers were approaching. They seemed ready for any trouble, and for a moment, he considered fighting them.

He decided to salvage his dignity. Richard stood, brushed the grass off his pants, and at a very casual pace, approached the platform. His escorts did nothing to hasten him along; they seemed content to allow him to advance at his speed. His last thought as he reached the platform centered on his bicycle. Who would ride it now?


	3. MEETING THE MENTORS

Richard no sooner stood atop the platform than the government official announced the end of the Reaping Day activities. All the unselected tributes dispersed without so much as a glance in their direction. He didn't get any chance to react. At least the girl had the opportunity to make a fool of herself by crying. Four peacekeepers hustled him off the stage in the opposite direction.

The five of them almost ran to the first car. Its deep black color and tinted glass made him think of a funeral car, but this was a sedan, not a hearse. One peacekeeper opened the door while a second one guided him like a criminal by his head. He plopped down on the seat just as the door slammed shut.

A lady sat next to him. Something sharp stabbed him in the leg. He wanted to vent his anger at the unprovoked attack, but his body refused to respond to his commands. His vision tunneled until the image of the lady's face replaced everything else. Colors faded and blurred into a grey haze. Blackness closed over him and he felt nothing more.

His eyes opened to a shocking revelation. Somebody had removed his clothing leaving him naked atop a metal platform. Richard turned his head and noticed the clock mounted on the wall read 5:00, which meant he must have slept less than five hours since the Reaping Day drawing happened at noon.

When he looked the other way, he discovered a plain cardboard box sitting on a chair. He slid his bare feet off the platform to the tiled floor. The chill reminded him of the bathroom floor when you first awoke. The box held a change of clothing. Not exactly his style, all nondescript navy blue. A check in the mirror confirmed his first impression. The government gave him an exercise outfit, similar to the one he wore during workouts with the football team, except this one lacked a logo.

Other than the chair, clock, and metal platform, the room contained nothing else. It made no logical sense remaining inside the room. Richard slipped into the outfit provided then checked the door. It surprised him that his door was unsecured. Nothing tried to prevent his exit. A man in a business suit rose from a chair located opposite his room.

"Ah, so good to see you're up and dressed," he consulted his clipboard, "Richard. If you'll follow me, we'll get started. Lots to do and so little time. Best we hurry as you're the last one. I must say, you do know how to sleep."

The fellow never waited for his response, he walked down the corridor as if he expected him to follow like a leashed pet. As much as Richard resented the idea, he saw no viable alternative. The other direction led to a blank wall, at least the guide led him to a door.

They raced through the corridors, passing several doors and turning either left or right. Whatever drug the lady used remained in his system. Richard's mind could not retain their course. After the fifth, or sixth, set of double doors, he decided not to even try to remember his path. If the fellow wanted him back in the same room, he could lead him there a second time.

Richard tried starting a conversation, but the man refused to answer him. It infuriated him that the man wouldn't even give him the courtesy of a name. He just kept dashing through the maze to some unknown cheese. When the man stepped to the side and pointed forward, Richard didn't hesitate.

The new room reminded him of a school cafeteria or study hall. Three folding tables formed a single row across the center of the room. A man dressed in a business suit identical to his guide stood at one end, his arms resting on a podium. Along both sides, other people dressed like him sat in silence. Several other men sat at the table dressed in suits. A single woman sat near the middle in a modest dress. The man standing at the podium turned in his direction.

"And here is our final tribute. Please, take a seat and we'll start the meal. I'm sure all of you should be starving since you've been sleeping almost forty hours. If you have any questions, your chaperones will answer them in private. "

Forty hours? It didn't seem possible. Richard moved to the one seat still vacant. When he sat, the man at the podium rang a bell, then departed. Waiters dressed in formal attire wheeled carts of food into the room. They placed the dishes on the table and departed without speaking a word.

Richard scanned the faces of the other tributes. He located the girl reaped from his sector three seats to his left. When he checked out the remaining tributes, his eyes locked on a boy opposite him. It didn't seem possible.

"Greetings brother, it seems the odds are not in our favor this year. Welcome to the Fiftieth Capital Hunger Games."

Richard couldn't believe what his senses told him. His brother John had the same ill fortune. He remembered his brother's sector was an open call, all males of reaping age had to report. That should have made the odds favorable for him.

"Nothing to say? I anticipated something witty, never expected it, but did hope for it. You're such a disappointment, brother."

Tributes exchanged stares, no doubt deciding this conversation didn't involve them. One thing Richard did know, John had something planned, he always did. John wanted the spotlight for some purpose. Fine, let him have it, but not at his expense.

John stood. "All of the tributes are dressed in the same uniform, typical of how the government thinks. I take it none of you are state officials? There's no uniformity in your attire, so who are you?"

The lone lady stared first at John and then at the male to her right. "My, my, my. Fame sure is a fleeting thing, even for somebody like you, Hulk."

The heavyset fellow sitting next to the lady harrumphed, but said nothing more coherent. The lady shook her head in a way that reminded Richard of his father whenever he acted disappointed.

She consulted a computer notepad. "John? It is John?" His brother nodded. "The twelve of us are the surviving winners from earlier games. Some of us became victors more than five years back, so I can excuse your lack of recognition. Hulk won last year, and yet nobody remembers him. That's disappointing. But to answer your question, we are your mentors, your guides to this year's event."

"Since you appointed yourself spokesperson," John sneered, "how about answering one question. What medical procedure did you perform on us? Nobody stays asleep for forty hours unless medically induced. Don't deny it; I felt the bald spot shaved on the back of my head. I saw it on the other tributes sitting here when I first came into the room."

Richard's hand went to the back of his head searching for the bald spot. A motion duplicated by every tribute excluding John. He should know by now. John was super observant. Move a book in his room and he would notice.

The lady turned to her left and than her right. "I do believe you are the first tribute ever to notice, not that it matters. You might have learned this as a victor, but since you asked."

She hesitated, no doubt hoping she could snag dominance by having him ask for an answer. John used the same tactic too often to fall for such an easy trap. He just positioned his arms across his chest and stared at her as if she were an insignificant bug. Their battle of wills ended when the lady broke eye contact.

"Trevor," she said, "do be a dear and turn on the screen. A demonstration will go much further than words alone."

The black gentleman sitting at the far end went to the wall and pressed a hidden button, which raised a large video monitor. A huge square of static burst onto the screen. When it cleared a second later, it contained charts and data that continually updated itself. Richard deciphered some of the material shown. Blood pressure, heart rate, respiration, and body temperature dominated the portion just below the line that showed his brother's name.

"While you were asleep, two transmission chips were implanted at the base of your skull. As you can see, the first one is medical data. Each of you have gone through extensive medical scrutiny while in your induced coma. If the medical staff detected a natural defect, such as a sprained bone, damaged lung or an early pregnancy, it has been corrected. This chip verifies your death in the game, nothing more."

Richard wasn't sure, but the girl at the far end seemed a lot paler in the face. He wondered if the lady mentor referred to her. Something he didn't consider important at the moment. He preferred watching his brother's verbal sparring match.

"You said two chips," John stated. Though all understood it as a question, his wording made it a challenging statement.

The lady pressed something on her pad. Now the screen filled with a picture of her. The camera view shifted and now Richard's face dominated the screen. His brother's voice came from several hidden speakers.

"If you're trying to make a point, don't be obtuse," said John.

The lady gave an exaggerated sigh. "The second chip not only acts as a locator, it also transmits what you see and hear. Viewers need not rely on nearby cameras that might be out of range."

"That's not my voice," John protested.

"It is and it isn't. Let me give you a simple lesson on human physiology. There is a natural tube between your throat and the back of your eardrum. It's there to equalize ear pressure. It also transmits your voice. We all hear our voice as it sounds inside our head, which is different than what others hear. If you ever recorded your voice and played it back, you would understand the differences. The audio receiver is on the outward side of your eardrum, which transmits the voice others recognize as yours, not the one you hear."

Hulk interrupted the lady's lecture. "With twelve mentors, each of us will have three tributes. I don't want these two brothers with me, there's enough bickering between tributes without introducing even more conflict. Time is too precious."

"Fine. If you draw both male tributes, I'll take the quiet one." She pointed in Richard's direction. "Will that be satisfactory?"

Hulk shrugged. "And what will it cost me? I have never heard of you giving anyone something for free, or doing a favor without a price. I know you too well, Vicky."

"If you get both brothers, we exchange one male tribute. Richard for whichever male I drew. My price is ten percent of one tribute's fee. If I get John, you take him and I'll give you the ten percent. Otherwise, no harm, no foul, and no bonus." The lady took her time and stared at each mentor. "I'll make the same deal with all of you, ten percent for Richard. I have that much faith in him, and that's just on first impressions. John will be the thorn in the side of the unfortunate mentor who gets him and as Hulk said, time is too precious to waste."

The mentors did their version of a lottery, drawing the name of a female tribute and then a male tribute. They passed a second hat that contained red and blue ribbons. If a mentor drew a blue ribbon, he drew from the appropriate sack. None of the mentors called out the names, but waited until everyone had their ribbons.

Vicky drew a red ribbon, which gave her two female tributes. When each mentor finished, they stood against the wall near the only door that had a doorknob. They arranged themselves in a line, with Vicky closest to the exit. The last to draw was Hulk, who by default, also picked two female tributes.

"Does anyone else wish to bargain for a specific tribute," asked Vicky. "We have some strong contenders this game."

"The tributes in dispute are brothers, and based on who Hulk drew as his lone male decides everything," said an oriental man standing near the center. "Why not settle that issue first."

Nods from all the mentors ended any discussion before it started. Each mentor examined the male tribute slips. A moment of quiet anticipation passed.

"I didn't get either brother," said Hulk.

"I picked Richard's name," said a heavyset man. "Does your offer hold?"

"Ten percent of one tribute's opening account balance," Vicky said. "My thumbprint is all we need to seal our agreement."

"Bargained well and accepted," the man said.

Each mentor placed their thumb on the computer tablet they carried. Both continued staring at the screen. In near unison, they closed the tablet.

"One more thing," said Vicky. She waited until she had every tribute's attention. "Before the Rebellion, there was a Parade of Tributes. We have modernized the Game; each tribute has an assigned channel dedicated to that one tribute and the broadcast begins when you leave this room. With one exception, you are under continual observation prior to and during the Game. Use that internal chip to woo potential sponsors. Your mentors will tell you how."

Vicky called out the names of the two female tributes she drew and motioned them to her side. She waved all three of them through the door. Richard followed his fellow tributes down a long corridor. He located one camera in the hallway and gave it a quick salute. They met no other person and the sound of Vicky's high heels resonated like a well timed drum beat.

At the end of the corridor, they exited the building and found themselves facing a gentleman wearing a chauffeur's uniform. He held the door open, allowing the tributes to enter first. Vicky slid into the limo last and took the rear facing seat. An awkward moment passed before the driver pulled away from the parking lot.

When the car stopped, they entered a single story building. Its furnishings displayed a minimalist view of a room. A plain earthen toned area rug covered most of the floor and the furniture reminded Richard of his carpentry workshop classroom. Nothing looked too attractive, but thick cushions hinted at comfort.

"Since there are only three bedrooms, our two lady tributes will share the main bedroom. I'll take whichever one you don't want Richard."

Vicky's finger pointed off to the right for the two girls. When she mentioned his name, she pointed to the left. With no other choice, Richard went down the hallway, stopping at the nearest door. The first two words that came to his mind were utilitarian and rustic. He didn't care; he could sleep anywhere.

"It's going to get gamey in here without a change of clothing."

"You'll have that by tomorrow after your first class. My stuff will arrive during that time. For now, let's rejoin the others in the main room."

Vicky led the way back where the two girls stood. The chairs did indeed prove as comfortable as he imagined. Richard leaned back, trying to decide how to open the conversation. Somehow, the reality of knowing your time was limited acted more as a deterrent to social amenities.

"Alright everyone," announced Vicky, "some basic information. Each of you will be at a separate training facility once tomorrow's introductory class ends. Special classes will be held at your private camp regarding survival skills and weapons proficiency. Instructors will offer strategies based on past games; they might prove helpful. Best you not discuss anything that happens at camp with other tributes. There will be just one winner, no sense giving your opponent any advantage."

She waited a moment. "Second rule, while here, we shall review whatever information is made public on the other tributes. We'll search for any weaknesses we can find and consider alliances. Remember, that sensory chip is broadcasting live while you're in camp. The only time the Game Master will take us offline is during our strategy sessions." She pointed to a lamp with a red light. "When that light is red, like it is now, we can speak with full privacy. If it's green, guard your words."

"I'm curious," said Richard, "why did everyone defer to you? What makes you the boss?"

She laughed. "My dear boy, everything is based on seniority. I'm the longest living victor, which makes me the first mentor. I've changed a lot since I won the Capital Hunger Game twenty-five years ago."

"You've been a victor for that long? Just how old are you?"

"I'm guessing your parents are divorced and live in different sectors. I also bet you live with your father. No man would ever dare ask a woman her age, poor manners. What I will say is that I hold the record for youngest female Capital Game Victor at age ten. Still want to know my age? Do the math."

"So you've been sending tributes to their death longer than anyone else. Great way of gaining seniority, and you do it with such a winning smile."

"My perky attitude is as much for your sake as mine. We all cope with the arena in different ways. Don't you wonder about the other victors? They defeated thirty-five tributes and yet they cannot endure success. A victor's survival comes at a high price and most cannot pay it. You'll discover that if you're lucky."

Richard watched Vicky storm off towards the bedroom hallway. He turned to his fellow tributes. If he had to guess, both girls were displeased by his actions. A quick review of his conversation didn't reveal any glaring mistake on his part. Yes, he could understand a mild disappointment regarding the age question. His comment about sending tributes to their death was a fact that shouldn't generate such hostility.

The younger of the two female tributes glared at him. "You have no idea what you did wrong. I can see it in your face."

She turned on her heels and left without a backward glance. Richard decided it wouldn't matter to one or both of them once they entered the arena. The dead don't care about such things. When he looked at the older girl, her expression reminded him of his father whenever he emphasized some discussion point Richard had never considered.

"Our mentor's name is Victoria Spesago, youngest of six children. Each of her brothers and sisters were reaped for the games. Her father committed suicide when the oldest boy was selected as the eighteen year old tribute in the Twenty-Fourth Capital Hunger Game. Her mother did the same when the Twenty-Fifth Capital Hunger Game started. So if you think she doesn't know the price of survival, you're wrong. She knows it better than any victor."

With that, the second female tribute joined her companion. Richard stood in the empty room for several minutes, not sure if he should do something. A glance at the colored lamp revealed a brilliant shade of jade.

Wonder how long its been transmitting.


	4. TRAINING - DAY ONE

Morning didn't start off any better for Richard. The four of them ate in total silence. Each time one of the three females glanced his way, the room's temperature dropped another degree below freezing. His attempts at initiating a conversation or offering his apology did nothing. Everyone there ignored his efforts.

Richard considered the doorbell's insistent tone a welcomed diversion. If nothing else, it should have forced Vicky to speak. Wrong again. She just waved the three of them forward and with a quick push, got them beyond the door.

Three cars awaited. A driver stationed at each car held the door open. With the exception of a numbered flag flying from the radio antenna, the cars and drivers were interchangeable. Since neither female tribute wanted to talk or make a move, he grabbed the first car in line. He slid into the seat and the driver closed the door. The driver circled the car and took his place behind the wheel.

"I do hope you're willing to talk, the ladies are giving me the cold shoulder treatment," said Richard.

"Can you blame them, sir? To lose a brother or sister to the game is bad enough, but to lose your entire family? Then you had the audacity to infer she enjoys doing the same to others? It will cost you, sir," said the driver.

"I tried apologizing, but it didn't help. Any suggestions?"

"Miss Victoria selects a tribute she thinks will go far each year. None have won, but each has finished in the top five. She chose you for a reason. Show her that faith wasn't misplaced. Demonstrate your determination to win, that should impress her."

He didn't get any chance at asking his driver how he could do that as the car's engine came to life. Richard decided to just relax for the moment. The driver seemed to be of a like mind as he too remained silent for the duration of the trip. When they pulled into the parking lot, the driver reminded him of the car's number. No doubt this would be his car for the duration.

Richard followed his fellow tributes into the one-story building. There was no possibility of getting lost since the shack consisted of one large classroom. He grabbed the chair nearest the center and at the very front. He did take a moment hoping he could find his brother, but he arrived later than him and the class started once the last tribute entered the room.

The instructor reminded him of his chemistry teacher. She had the same rail thin body, horn rimmed glasses, and a hair style that did nothing to enhance whatever beauty she possessed. He almost dismissed her as unimportant, but knew every mentor could see what transpired. Best he seem attentive.

"You are to be paired, one male and one female to each training camp. You will be working with your instructors one on one. The schedule is a simple one, four hours outside, two hours of classroom work, and four hours indoor training. If you are outside, your counterpart will be inside. In short, this is the final time all of you will see any other tribute until the final week. The game allows just one winner, you may as well get use to working alone."

"I thought the game allowed allies," said Richard.

The instructor had that same glare every teacher shared whenever a dense kid asked a question with an obvious answer. "That was true prior to the Mockingjay Revolt when the old Capital cast a blind eye to career training. Since the game's rules say one winner, everyone is trained in private."

"What about sponsors? I thought they eliminated that too, but I heard our mentor mentioning a tribute's price. Can you explain that? If I'm to play this game, I want to know all the rules, not just the ones related to me."

It must be something bred into teachers, Richard thought. Give them a question they don't want or go outside their prepared script and you get some overview that does nothing to answer your concerns. Guessing by her body language, he was going to get something that did nothing but confuse.

"Each tribute has a set number of points assigned prior to the game. Your mentor is responsible for using it for your benefit. Kill another tribute and you gain half their funds. If a tribute under your mentor's guidance dies, you receive a share of the remaining balance. Additional funds come from a betting pool that opened last night and closes one hour before the game. But such things are for your mentor, your only concern is survival. Return to your cars and you will be taken to your training facility."

 _Yeah, just what I anticipated_. Richard returned to his assigned car. As they rode, he tried puzzling out the value of each tribute. This was the type of thing his scholarly brother could reason out with some accuracy, but not him. He knew his mentor paid to select him, so he knew the others had a slight financial advantage. If the betting pool last night went against him, as it probably did, than he needed to prove himself the best candidate for survival. Like it or not, the Hunger Game started last night.

When he climbed out of the car, he thought himself back at school, the place reminded him of a huge practice field. The dirt path ran by an area needing nothing more than lines to make it into a proper pitch. Even the gentlemen waiting for him reminded him of his coaches, right down to the whistle hanging on their lanyard.

One pointed at a building that was more shack than facility. It didn't take long changing into his training outfit. When he stepped outside, one coach offered him a backpack that weighed close to twenty pounds. At that point, calisthenics. Warm ups, stretches, and a few wind sprints. He just finished the school football season, so he found this almost enjoyable.

The second coach waved him over to the dirt track. He took his mark in the runner's blocks, not too sure where this track would take him. The coach's whistle had him sprint from the blocks, but he knew enough not to push too hard until he knew the length of the course. No doubt cameras recorded everything and he felt euphoric thinking how impressed any watcher would be with his performance.

The track made a sharp turn into the forest and now his confidence began to waver. The obstacle course looked like one devised by a sadistic fiend. He had to toss a grappling hook, rappel down the other side, crawl, climb, and sprint over several barriers, all while wearing the backpack. It didn't help having the coach follow in a motorized cart in case he considered cheating.

"Not a bad time for your first run, tribute," said the first coach when he crossed the finish line.

Richard caught the tossed canteen and drained half in one pull. The rest he poured over his head. He didn't get a chance to say anything, the coach pointed in the direction of the dirt road. No use arguing with any instructor, they always won. He sprinted down the course, glad he paced himself the first time. When he reached the end, he expected a canteen of water. The coach must have been a mind reader.

"You wasted the water; no refills. In the arena, drinking water means survival, consider that your lesson for the day. The outdoor session continues tomorrow, they're waiting for you in Classroom B."

He was caked in mud and perspiration, which he was given no time to remove. The coach also didn't allow him an opportunity to use the dressing room. If they thought such discomforts would affect him, Richard would prove them wrong. He played in foul weather and on dirty fields before today. One doesn't make first string without learning to ignore such things during practice or games. Richard figured he wouldn't be bathing in the arena, so he needed to learn how to live with such discomforts.

Calling this place a classroom seemed a bit grandiose. There was just enough room for a desk and two people. As soon as Richard sat, the bald man started a slide show. Pictures of plants appeared and he would describe their properties. Some made one ill, uncomfortable, healthier, or offered another source of food. He would have preferred having a book for later reference, but these classes didn't offer such a luxury.

The one thing that did make the classroom attractive was the meal. It wasn't more than what you could obtain at the school's cafeteria, something filling and without taste. He didn't waste anything they gave him. If he thought a meal break would interrupt the classroom, he was mistaken.

The instructor had an agenda and didn't allow anything to disturb it. Once the teacher had described three plants, he tested Richard's memory. If he got it wrong, the instructor repeated his lecture. When he got it right, another plant was added to the list of things he needed to learn.

When the lecture ended, Richard stood. The teacher pointed to a door and with nothing more than a simple nod, dismissed him. He wondered if he would have to work with this guy for the duration of his training. Richard didn't want somebody talking to him, he wanted somebody who would respond to his questions. This guy didn't. He found it a pleasure getting away from the place.

"Welcome, tribute. In here, we'll be introducing you to various weapons. Would you have any preference?"

Somebody who wanted to interact with him? Richard liked this instructor. He told you what he would do while offering you the chance to decide what would be best. Weapons wasn't something he had ever considered. A knife might be a weapon, but the only thing he attacked was a well cooked piece of meat. His mind raced through several options without settling on any specific one.

"I've got strength as I played offense in football," said Richard. "I'm thinking something that will let me use that to my advantage, but I have no idea what would be best for me. How about you suggesting something?"

The fellow bounced in place. "Such honesty; it's refreshing. Most tributes are so predictable. They think sword, knife, or club, as if that's the extent of their choices. We have about two hours before we get to your final lesson of the day, so let's give you a crash course on everything and we can narrow your choices in later sessions. That sound acceptable?"

Richard never got an opportunity to answer. The man shoved a toy sword made of wood into his hand. They went through a few basic moves, nothing complicated. The instructor relieved him of the wooden sword and handed him a sword hilt that held a willow switch. He almost laughed until he saw the man's serious expression. The weapons might not be real, but the training was in earnest.

A few moments of thrust and retreat had the instructor nodding, but offering no further comment. He removed the willow sword that the fellow called an epee and handed him a thick stick that fit his fist. The metal made it quite heavy, but Richard could not fathom what weapon it represented. Again the man led him through a series of exercises with the thing.

When he relieved him of the metal stick, he led Richard to a rack of javelins. The instructor had him throw the dozen javelins towards a target perhaps thirty feet from the white line he couldn't cross. None of his throws came anywhere near the target. He had pinpoint accuracy with a ball, but these sticks didn't react the same way. Richard thought himself a klutz, but the man's genuine smile had him try harder with each toss.

The last one proved to be nothing more than a blunt ended pole. Instead of throwing it, the man had him go through dance moves with it. Richard flipped it from one hand to the other, sometimes across his body, and sometimes requiring him to spin in place before catching it.

After the instructor told him to replace the pole, he led him off to the side. Based on the fellow's expression, he had something important to divulge. Since he needed a weapon in the arena, and one he could handle better than his opponent, Richard waited for the man's verdict.

"A sword or knife might be useful, but not as your primary weapon. As you said, you have strength. That stick had the weight of a heavy weapon, like a club, axe, or hammer. You never faltered with it, so we will concentrate on those tomorrow. Forget projectile weapons, I'm thinking it will take too long learning how to aim."

Richard nodded. He liked this guy's blunt honesty and thought his help might provide him the advantage he needed in the upcoming game. The man's voice interrupted his thoughts about weapons.

"For your final lesson of the day, you shall fight in the bloodbath competition."

"Now wait one minute," Richard yelled. "I thought the game didn't start for another three weeks."

The coach laughed. "It's a computer simulation, a form of virtual reality we use for training purposes. You will see and experience everything without any danger, though you will feel any injuries you sustain during the simulation. For this exercise, the arena is a hundred meter circular field with the cornucopia set at the very center. You will be facing thirty-five computer generated tributes, just like the real thing. Now let's get you hooked into the system."

They entered a room filled with wires that formed a spider web. Fifteen minutes later, Richard found himself hanging in the center like a trapped fly. They ran a few tests, which had him spinning in every direction. He also did a few movements as they calibrated the equipment. The last item they attached was a bubble helmet over his head. All he could see was a uniform grey all around him.

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

The grey around him faded from top to bottom. Richard stood on the starting platform for the game. In front of him was the cornucopia and a field filled with weapons, backpacks, and other assorted gear. A glance to either side and he spied his competition. The sun rose above a stand of trees to his left while a gentle breeze ruffled the thick carpet of grass.

I've always wondered if these things are rigged to explode if you leave early.

He jumped off just as the countdown hit eight seconds. Pain raced through every nerve in his body. The bright sunny field disappeared, replaced by a grey nothingness. Somebody knocked on his helmet. His instructor didn't sound too happy.

"There's always one trainee who has got to test the system. Just my luck it had to be you. Now listen carefully. This exercise is one hour long in real time, and you'll be running it at least a dozen times. That stunt took twenty-two seconds off the clock so you have another fifty-nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds. If you want this class to end fast, fight harder."

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

Now the sun shone in his eyes. He crouched as the computer voice counted down the last three seconds. The starter's gun startled him even though he expected it. He had no viable plan since he never thought about the game beyond his involvement. The other tributes raced towards the cornucopia. He sprinted after the others. Somebody tackled him from the rear. Richard had about a second to see his attacker was a scrawny girl that had to weigh less than a third of his mass. It didn't stop the knife or the pain. The grey returned.

"Oh so much better," came the sarcastic voice of his trainer. "First off, there are no rules but survival. Ignore everything but the weapons for this exercise. You said you had strength, use it. At least this time you doubled your time in the arena. At this rate, we'll be running forty simulations. Round three."

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

Richard found himself near the center of the pack instead of the outer edge like last time. The sunlight that blinded him in the prior simulation warmed his back. When the gun signaled the start of the game, he launched himself off the platform. He wanted to do better than he did in his prior performance. It just might keep his coach quiet.

A tall girl tried passing him. Richard shoved her into two other tributes and all three tumbled to the ground. For the immediate moment, he ignored them. Another two paces and the metal topped club would be his. Somebody tackled him and he rolled onto his back.

This time the tribute was a boy of ten. Like the girl in the earlier run, he lunged like a lion after its prey, a knife in each hand. Richard recalled his gymnastics class. He raised his knee catching the tribute in his chest while his hands guided each shoulder. He used his adversary's momentum to throw him past him. _And I always thought gym period was such a waste of time_.

Without any immediate threat, he rolled over and grabbed the club. Once he stood, the odds changed. He swung the club like a cricket bat, catching the young tribute under the chin. Richard put so much power behind the swing it almost decapitated the fellow. A crimson fountain formed where the boy's head had rested a second earlier. He gagged. The sound of the cannon caused him to flinch. Those two reactions allowed a different tribute to lunge at him with a spear. Severe pain coursed throughout his body and everything returned to the non-descript grey.

"Your first kill, and it only took three attempts. There might be hope for you yet. I do hope you detected my note of sarcasm, it was intentional. The simulation gives you time to make a quick assessment of the arena, use it. Locate the weapon you want and try to remain aware of the other tributes. Block everything else out of your mind. By the way, you almost doubled your time. Stand by for Round Four."

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

Richard lost count how many times the simulation ran. As to the arena, somebody had a very twisted mind. Some of the games were fought in adverse weather. One time he fought at night, something he never anticipated. Another round had land mines planted between the cornucopia and the tributes marked by bare spots in the grass. Other simulations had uneven ground or rocky terrain. Weapons were close to the platforms or within the very mouth of the cornucopia, he never knew until the scene revealed itself.

The computer generated opponents all had different strengths and weaknesses. The one common denominator was their determination to kill anyone still breathing. At least they didn't all gang up on him. They fought each other too. It offered him opportunities at increasing his odds of survival.

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

The air was frigid and nothing remained visible. He made out his objective through the foggy air, a war hammer sitting perhaps five paces from his platform. Problem was, it was just three paces from the brute to his left. The starting horn sounded and he rushed for the hammer. So did the brute. A hard knee to the groin gave him the advantage he needed. The brute died when the flat head of the hammer met his chest. After so many sessions, the gore no longer affected him. The cannon morphed into background noise.

Richard charged into the melee. Two tributes fought with short swords. He raced by them, his hammer arching out like a baseball bat. He caught one solid in the back and did not wait to see what damage he did. The cannon didn't sound so he would come back later.

He lost track of the time or the battles. One girl kept opponents at a distance with a bow. Richard grabbed the arm of a passing tribute and sent him towards her. She demonstrated her accuracy by shattering that tribute's head. In the time it took her to prepare another arrow, he closed the distance and heaved his hammer at her. She ducked and Richard used the opening to grab the bow. He wrenched it from her grip and threw it a distance behind her.

While she ran for the bow, he retrieved his weapon. Danger lurked nearby and the fog didn't help. He kept fighting. Than he spotted the same girl with her bow. She saw him and he feared he would not win this race. She drew her weapon, but never fired. A cannon boomed.

Whoever killed her must be nearby, the problem was where. He looked for his adversary. Out of the fog stepped a girl, armed with a blowgun. A sharp pain struck him in the arm, it continued to burn him as every nerve in his body refused to respond to his commands. A cannon boomed and he knew it was for him just as the grey returned.

Somebody removed the helmet. "That's the last simulation. Total time, an hour and four minutes in seventeen simulations. About average on time, better than usual on the number of simulations, and you did score a decent number of kills. That should improve your ratings, though your first score did hurt. Your mentor will discuss your results when you get back to the residence. Until tomorrow."

Richard dragged himself to the building he used earlier as a dressing room. The hot shower felt so good. Such a mundane thing, yet his perception turned it into a luxury. Every muscle in his body relaxed. He looked forward to a hearty dinner and a comfortable bed.

As he stepped outside, the same car and driver pulled up to the building. Strange as it seemed, he anticipated the driver opening the passenger door. Instead, the car idled until he opened the door and climbed into the back seat. When the door closed, the car made its way to the training camp's gate.

"You did quite well today, tribute. I might even consider making a wager or two based on your performance."

"How much did you see? Got any suggestions for the real thing?"

The driver made a snorting sound as if he were muffling a hearty laugh. "Everything you did outdoors, in the classroom, and the gym was broadcasted. The simulator is in real time, which allows viewers to see the action. At that point, the main channel switches to a scoreboard showing how you're doing compared to the other tributes. I'm a kill-man myself while my wife considers the number of simulations more valuable. To each his own."

"I'm curious, which tribute did the best in the simulations," asked Richard.

"All depends on how you rate the tributes," said the driver. "For number of kills, there was a tribute seven years back that seemed invincible in the simulations. I lost a bundle on him when he died in the opening bloodbath. However, if you're talking longevity, there was one tribute who won two simulations a long time ago. She's still the only tribute to ever win on that machine during her first bloodbath simulation session."

"Glad I'm not meeting that tribute."

"Oh but you are, sir. It's your mentor, Victoria Spesago."


	5. MENTOR'S VIEW

Richard couldn't think of a comeback. His mentor not only beat the bloodbath simulator, she did it twice. She also did it at the age of ten, something he would consider impossible. He didn't want to admit it, but that was a stellar achievement. He needed her on his side and his initial comments when they first met did everything to discourage a relationship. He might not have the rapier wit his brother had, but sometimes he engaged mouth before brain. It made for a long and quiet ride.

When the car delivered him to his home, he climbed out without a word. He watched the limo continue down the road. His mind remained a jumble as he tried to devise some means of making amends. Nothing came to him. He walked into the building without much thought.

"All hail our returning warrior, or should I say congratulations to all three of you." Vicky's enthusiastic voice broke his dark funk. "My word, I thought I had one good candidate, now I'm finding myself with three excellent players."

"I seem to be always the last to know, how about explaining it to me," said Richard.

Vicky pointed at the blond-haired girl. "Susanna completed her hour in just fourteen rounds, two more than the current record of twelve times. You, Richard, tied for second with seven other tributes who did seventeen rounds."

Their mentor squeezed the other girl's shoulder. "Rebecca came in third with eighteen rounds, but her average kills per round ties her for first place. That should bring in a lot of betting action over the next few days."

"Did you see what we did in each round? I understand you beat that game, twice. If you can tell us what we did right and wrong, it can help us when we get to the real thing."

Vicky tilted her head, her body language hinting confusion to Richard. She hid it well by fixing herself a drink. Once she had it, she took a chair that allowed her to speak with any tribute with nothing more than a turn of her head. She reached under her chair and retrieved the television's remote. The screen filled with static.

"As your mentor, I'm privy to the real time training tapes, including all of the other tributes. I intend watching them tomorrow for any clues as to how they might act. For now, I'll comment on your performance."

She faced the mantle where the lamp burned a brilliant green. "While we have dinner, let's hold a . . . ," she yelled, ". . . strategy session." The light switched to red. "Good, for the next three hours, we are granted total and absolute privacy. Every camera and microphone within this building has been deactivated by a timer. Your individual channels will be broadcasting summaries of today's events while game analysts discuss your numbers. We'll eat first. I watched the live feed of your bloodbath simulation and made some notes for discussion."

Rebecca piped up, "How many strategy sessions can we have? It feels creepy knowing somebody sees and hears everything I'm doing. I mean, there are times you do need a bit of privacy, if you know what I mean."

Susanna nodded. "I keep my eyes closed while in the facilities. It feels so gross knowing somebody is watching you do your business."

Vicky didn't laugh. "There's a ten-second delay between reality and what everyone sees. It gives our censors time to block out such things. Of course, if another tribute catches you in a compromising position during the game, the audience will see it. I speared two lovers making out during my game. All of Panem saw those two doing it just before I killed them. The next year, some boy was relieving himself when another tribute shot him in the back with an arrow. I'm sure the parent's expected a gallant ending, not their kid's bare ass filling the screen just before the cannon fired."

Such blunt talks had each tribute excusing themselves. Everyone claimed they wanted time to wash before dinner. Richard didn't know if he should laugh at such images or vomit at the reality of something like that happening. By the time he cleaned the day's grime off himself, Vicky was shouting about dinner getting colder by the minute. It reminded him of home, which darkened his mood.

Dinner consisted of some of the finest foods. Even with his father's high salary, Richard didn't think they could afford any one item, let alone the entire menu. The stark difference between his earlier existence and this pre game period reminded him of his school's history lessons. Those pre-revolution District tributes went from abject poverty to opulence overnight, at least until the countdown timer hit zero.

"Maybe the shock of being in the game is wearing off," said Richard. "I know there are some differences from these games and the pre-revolution ones. As our mentor, could you explain them to us."

"My, such manners after what happened yesterday," Vicky cooed. "I'm not going to be your bloody history teacher, but I'll answer the more pertinent questions. At least the ones related to your survival."

"I think what Richard is asking is how can you be of any assistance," said Susanna.

A lingering silence settled over the dinner table. Rebecca also asked the same thing, but referenced Vicky's victory, complimenting her on the achievement. For once, Richard kept his mouth shut.

"Each tribute starts out with the same number of points, twenty-five thousand. People submit contracts for a number of points as in a stock market, which replaces the old scoring system used in the pre-revolution games. The better you do while training, the more points sold and the higher each point is worth. The opening bell was this morning. People must purchase their points at least one day before the game starts at the market price. That establishes the sponsor's funding pool. Your backers contact me regarding what they believe you need most. If I can send it to you, I will."

Rebecca's brow knitted. "So what happened today? Did we go up or down?"

"For my two ladies, I managed to sell fifteen thousand points and at a reasonable price. It placed both of you near the middle, but first day rankings are notoriously inaccurate. I'm thinking your performance in the bloodbath simulation should help me sell the rest when the market opens tomorrow and at a much better price. That should move you into the top quarter."

Vicky chewed her meat first and took a swallow of her drink. "As for you, Richard, you have fewer shares to offer. Sometimes that works in your favor, sometimes it doesn't. Right now, I've sold less than twelve thousand points. Not an auspicious start. Since the final simulation rankings were not released until after the market closed, we'll have to wait until tomorrow. People can be unpredictable, but high scores should create a demand."

Susanna lifted her fork. "One of my instructors talked about a betting pool. People don't just purchase a share of the victor, they also bet on who dies first, who will make the first kill, which tribute will have the most kills, and the order of finish. Do we get any of that?"

"Everybody saw Richard jumping off the platform. Sponsors reacted and your value placed you dead last at the market's close today. The betters wagered heavily that you'll not last beyond the first hour. I placed a large bet you last beyond the twenty-four hour mark. If that one bet wins, you'll have a strong war chest."

The two female tributes laughed. Richard didn't realize how much his stunt cost him. If past games were any indication, a strong war chest could be the difference between death and a reasonable chance at survival. Knowing he had to get beyond the first day before he had enough funding was sobering. The training period was three weeks, he needed to impress those wagering that he stood a good chance of winning. Anything less might affect his chances of surviving the game.

"A change of topics, if you will," said Richard. "None of us got the opportunity to say our farewells. I know they allowed it pre-revolution. What about us?"

For the first time since they met, Vicky's perky attitude vanished. "You get to have your farewell session twenty-four hours before the game starts. Same thing with the pre-game interview, that happens twelve hours before the game. I will review possible interview questions during our strategy sessions, pay careful attention. That final interview can be a real lifesaver."

Vicky ended further questioning by flipping on the television. "People have different criteria regarding the best candidate to win the game. Some betters consider longevity in the bloodbath simulator. Others believe the number of kills important. Still others go by points earned, which is based on your average finishing position in all your simulations. Shall we see where everyone ranks?"

Richard checked his scores, but also noted where his brother ended. He expected to do better and the tally sheets confirmed it. His brother placed twenty-fifth in number of rounds, though his kill rate placed him seventeenth. No doubt zero points for the first round hurt his average score. He found his brother's name one slot above him. His mentor's voice became background noise as she showed the simulator tapes for the two girls.

He wasn't oblivious to their performance. Susanna had agility. She got most of her kills while two or more tributes fought among themselves. She struck fast and made a hasty escape whenever she found the opportunity. She had an instinctive sense of the field's competitors, which afforded the tribute she struck no chance at retaliation without exposing themselves. Her tactics allowed her to go deep in the bloodbath simulations, finishing in the top ten each time. The one drawback she had, her attacks seldom killed. When forced into a one-on-one duel, she failed each time.

Rebecca's tape showed next. She had a killer instinct the simulator emphasized. She didn't shy away from any combat and her pike kept most fighters at a fair distance. If she kept the battles to an individual tribute, the cannon's boom attested to her ferocity. Whenever two or more faced her as a team, she faltered. Sometimes she managed to kill one, but her aggressive nature allowed for no retreat, and that exposed her to counterattacks.

Vicky played his tapes last. She looped his jump off the starting platform enough times that all three ladies were in hysterics. He tried being objective about his performance, as if he watched a scouting report on an opponent. The tapes showed he had strength, but he often lost track of the other tributes. He reacted to the situation instead of controlling the action. Sometimes he rushed into a brawl he should have avoided while at other times, he missed opportunities at eliminating an enemy. His biggest problem, handling those with long ranged weapons.

"Our strategy session time is almost up," said Vicky. "I'm sure your instructors will be coming to the same conclusions as we did here. Still, I'll pass on my observations. I suggest you listen to your instructors over the time remaining. Somebody has to win, I'm hoping it's one of you."


	6. SIMULATED BATTLEFIELD

Time passed. Each day's training session duplicated the other. Whenever he trained outside, he ran the five kilometer obstacle course twice. The classroom sessions focused on different survival skills each day after a quick review of the previous day's lesson. The indoor training took on a greater intensity as he narrowed the range of preferential weapons or honed his unarmed combat skills.

Today's session had him indoors first. That satisfied him as the weather outside hinted at a heavy rain. Richard found the classroom door locked, which surprised him. If he didn't have a classroom session, the female tribute sharing his camp did. Instead, he found one instructor leading both of them to the same room.

The instructors had two simulators prepared. While the technicians hooked him to the wires, he tried holding a conversation with the other female tribute. His efforts proved unsuccessful. Each time somebody spoke, some engineer needed a specific reaction from one of them. He gave up any attempt at civility.

A bored voice spoke through his earpiece. "Today's simulation will be running at least fourteen hours, so just relax. Understand that once the machine is operational, you will be unable to communicate with anyone but the technician. Shall we begin?"

Richard hated such rhetorical questions. If you answered, the technicians would laugh at your stupidity. If you remained silent and they wanted a response, they treated you like a fool. Either way, you came out looking bad. For once, he guessed the appropriate response and remained silent. It pleased him when nobody said anything and the grey preprogram visual display appeared. He waited.

One moment, his world was a sensory deprived grayness. The next, he stood naked in a utilitarian room. Clothing hung on hooks mounted on the wall. Richard dressed, amused by how much this room mimicked the locker room he used outside. Whatever this simulation entailed would happen in a different venue.

"In this simulation you will participate in the game at a point beyond the initial bloodbath. All tributes are on the outside rim of the arena. The nearest tribute is two kilometers to your right or left. They may have additional equipment, so be alert. The cornucopia is at the center. You have the following items: one full canteen, a survival knife, a backpack containing a waterproof blanket, fifty feet of wire, and fifty feet of rope. Please specify your weapon of choice."

Richard mulled over his choices. "Warhammer. Are questions allowed?"

"Ask."

"If I have all this equipment, and the other tributes have also been outfitted, what is the purpose of the cornucopia?"

"Additional supplies and equipment, including medical gear should you suffer any injury. You may also find a different weapon better suited for this specific arena. Please step into the tube."

Richard saw no reason to push the unknown technician's knowledge. He wouldn't reveal anything helpful. He held the weapon at the ready as the tube closed. Once again, the familiar grayness returned.

A computer voice spoke. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

As his head cleared the ground level, Richard got his first view of the arena. The setting was deep within a forest. Trees stood so close that his line of sight never exceeded thirty feet. The air had a heavy feel from the humidity. Despite a high sun, the area around his platform held many shadows from the surrounding forest.

He withdrew the survival blade and checked the pummel. The yellow indicator moved within its enclosure. One of those valuable features included with the survival knife, a homing beacon slaved to the cornucopia. Richard oriented himself with that direction since the outer wall of the arena should be no more than a dozen paces beyond the platform.

The last three seconds elapsed. He almost tempted fate by stepping off the platform before the timer reached zero. Richard knew he needed a good score if he wanted to attract sponsors, so he hesitated a second. Nothing moved. If the technician told him the truth, the nearest computer simulated tribute couldn't reach him for at least half an hour, and he had fourteen hours to wander around this simulation.

A brisk walk should get him to the cornucopia. If these tributes acted like those in the bloodbath simulations, they might eliminate each other. All the better for him. The higher he finished, the better his score. For such a short time, he could evade. Let the computer do all the kills, he would just meander through the forest until it ended. Richard decided he would circle the arena by keeping the homing beacon's arrow pointing to his right.

He had no idea about the passage of time. It seemed like an eternity trekking through the heavy vegetation. Richard grew tired of the scenery. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but wandering around bored him. He needed action. After a moment's hesitation, he make his way towards the cornucopia.

 _Sponsors prefer killers, best I demonstrate that talent_. He rationalized his actions by reminding himself it was just a simulation.

When the cannon sounded, it made him jump. Richard didn't move while he searched the immediate vicinity. He saw nothing. He heard nothing; even the insects ceased their buzzing. He relaxed and verified his course would take him to the cornucopia.

A big mistake. The boy was around his age, armed with a short spear. He rushed him from his place of concealment no more than half a dozen paces to his side. Richard reacted to the danger as he learned from his combat classes.

The other teen's spear grazed his belly, leaving a deep gash as he rushed past him. Richard's war hammer connected with the other tribute's back, launching him into the nearest tree. When the tribute fell, Richard didn't hesitate. The cannon's boom confirmed his kill.

He stripped the dead tribute's shirt off and used it as a bandage. Not ideal, but it would hold. At least the cut didn't leave him disabled. In pain, yes; out of the fight, no. Movement might reopen the wound; best he go back to his original plan.

Now he paused every dozen steps, examining the area for possible threats. Whenever the cannon's blast echoed through the forest, his alertness increased. Though he knew the simulation wouldn't kill him, the injuries suffered did hurt. Minimizing his injuries and not letting such pain slow him might win him sponsors. He wondered how much longer this thing would run.

Up ahead, a small clearing. Richard hesitated, not sure why. He caught the reflection in the sunlight. A wire crossed the path at ankle height and touched his leg. Were he to take another step, something would happen. He inched his foot backward.

Wire traps came in two styles, active or passive. Active ones operated when the trip wire became too taunt or if snapped. A passive one would cause him to trip. If he fell, he would be helpless while he regained his footing, or a second trap would either injure or kill him. He tried tracing the thin wire hoping he could discover its purpose.

Another mistake. He focused so much on the danger in front of him he never perceived the nearby threat. The tribute who set the trap charged him from the rear. She might be his age, but she had less than half his mass. That saved him. She couldn't push him onto the wire.

Like two wrestlers, they grappled. She too made a mistake. She tried attacking him without a weapon. A foolish and deadly mistake. Richard held the tribute in a tight bear hug. When she gave his shin a hard kick, he threw her onto the path. A loud twang and the girl screamed. A massive log fell out of the leafy overhead branches, crushing her. The cannon boomed.

Richard couldn't believe it. How did such a petite girl lift such a heavy object that high? It didn't seem possible. One of the ropes dangled in the air and his eyes followed it upward. The rope passed through a complicated series of pulleys. This tribute had something unexpected and she knew how to use it. Her trap almost worked.

 _Enough mistakes, time to take charge while the simulation is still running_.

His trip to the cornucopia took him past the setting sun. He crouched near the forest edge as he counted the number of tributes camped by the structure. His mentor told him never to join an alliance, yet the computer tributes had no such inhibitions. This close to his objective, he understood the value of teamwork in this game. The old adage about safety in numbers came to his mind. No way could he challenge seven tributes, some bigger than him.

He retreated into the forest, seeking a campsite. Richard twisted the top off the survival knife and counted the matches. He replace the cap. A fire attracted unwanted notice which could get one killed. Not smart.

The games always started at noon. Sunset occurred around eight, which left him six hours. All he needed was a safe camp and it would be over. Two kills wasn't a lot, but he survived. Unless potential sponsors noted his errors, it had to help. Just as he settled in for a good rest, a small fire flared a short distance to his right.

His mind grasped onto a bold plan, one that might endear him to those reviewing his actions. Richard stalked the fire, approaching with all the caution he could muster. It being so close to his hideout, he figured he should arrive before anyone else.

For once, the odds favored him. The two tributes sat huddled near the fire with their backs to him. His stealth practice might pay off big if he waited. He leaned against a tree while he searched the surrounding forest. His eyes revealed nothing, but his ears detected movement. Too bad the two tributes near the fire missed the sound.

Richard recognized one of the two tributes charging the campfire. It was the black youth who guarded the cornucopia. At least the two by the fire held their weapons. He waited until the four started their duel.

He made his move. Richard charged into the melee while they were distracted by their fight. His weapon made the battle a short and bloody mess. A fusillade from the cannon confirmed his victories.

Somebody clapped. "I told those two idiots not to rush them, but did they listen? They forgot to check for a guard and now they're dead. Congratulations on removing those two fools. Oh well, better to take credit for one kill than to share two I suppose."

She advanced. Unlike the ones Richard fought, this lady demonstrated far more skill than he anticipated. Tributes were amateurs to combat and weapons, or so everyone told him. Either that wasn't true or this simulation included skilled fighters. No time for such thoughts, the lady's machete slashed out, just missing his head.

This fight took all his concentration as he evaded her efforts. Fortune smiled on him when one slash missed him but connected with a tree. It took her a second dislodging the blade. Time she couldn't afford. One blow to her shoulder spun her around and she fell. Her blade disappeared somewhere in the surrounding vegetation. Her eyes widened and she begged for mercy. His hammer struck her chest and the cannon sounded.

Richard returned to his camp, wiping the gore off his face. The notion of killing and its aftermath no longer affected him like it did that first time. He wondered how much longer this simulation would last.

Voices woke him. The sound of several feet tromping through the forest dispelled any lingering vestiges of sleep. At least he chose a good campsite last night since it provided him sufficient concealment as the morning sun touched the forest roof.

What's going on? It's been more than fourteen hours; why hasn't the simulation ended? Is it possible that this is the real thing and that I just forgot the bloodbath? Or did that already happen?

A female voice shouted. "I'm sure that campfire was in this direction. Keep searching the area, we need to know what happened last night."

Three male voices responded. Based on the comments, they might be allied with this girl, but all of them objected whenever she commanded them. Their bickering continued, which gave Richard an opportunity to locate the approaching tributes. He didn't leave his campsite fearing it might attract the wrong kind of attention.

The male tributes appeared first. They pushed their way through the growth, ignoring the nearby trail. They showed a lot more hunter's savvy than he did yesterday. He learned the hard way that if somebody wanted to set a booby-trap, it would be on the path. The one thing Richard could fault them for was keeping their weapons sheathed. No doubt confident nobody would attack a team of armed tributes.

That gave him an idea. Richard left his weapon leaning against a tree and withdrew his knife. He waited and watched as the group continued moving through the forest. None of them noticed him as they passed within a dozen steps.

Good fortune smiled on him. The female tribute didn't even check for possible danger. She relied on her teammates too much. The teen made a second mistake by not holding her weapon at the ready. Richard intended making those two errors fatal ones. As she passed him, he stepped onto the path. His free hand went over her mouth. The blade plunged into her back and with a quick twist, he felt her body relax.

Another mistake. Richard forgot about that damn cannon. All his plans, all his stealth went for naught. The others turned in his direction as the sound announcing the death of a tribute reverberated throughout the arena. One of the boys screamed a bloody war cry. His friends went for their weapons.

Richard decided now would be a good time to leave. As he rushed into the forest, he thanked whatever benevolent spirit introduced him to sports. When he passed his camp, he retrieved his weapon without breaking stride. His broken field running allowed him to dodge the trees and any deadfall that might trip him. He gained a bit of space while the others blundered through the underbrush.

A left turn down the path he crossed led him to the open field. It sat out there in the open, the cornucopia. Better yet, nobody guarded it. Richard's confidence convinced him that he would outdistance any pursuit. He wouldn't have much time, but there should be enough to grab something useful. It seemed like a reasonable tradeoff.

Either he failed to notice how many guarded the cornucopia or math wasn't his strongest suit. His mind recalled seven guarding the cornucopia last night. Three of them attacked the two who lit the fire last night. Three male tributes led the morning expedition in search of their companions. The last tribute was the girl he killed. Seven tributes, he accounted for everyone.

Number eight exited the structure. She acted as if she had plenty of time as she prepared her bow. Richard increased his pace. The girl pulled back and let the shaft fly. It hit him in the shoulder but did not kill him. She tried fixing another arrow to the string but her initial delay and poor shooting allowed him to get too close. He swung the hammer with all his might.

No time for getting anything. He lost that advantage fighting the archer. The three tributes came out of the forest and raced across the field in his direction. Richard had to escape. With no other alternative, he ran for the far side of the open area. He knew the girl lived since the cannon never sounded, but didn't know why she hadn't shot him. One doesn't question good fortune.

He followed the first trail, forgetting what the other tributes taught him. His luck held. To his right, the sound of running water. Richard diverted course. If he could get to water, it would hide the blood trail he left. If he evaded these tributes and tended to his injuries, he might live long enough to return the favor. It sounded like a big if, but he saw no other option.

The running water turned out to be a short waterfall tumbling into a wide pond. Based on past history, the people running these games enjoyed putting some unknown danger in such pools for the unwary. Richard knew the possible dangers. The pursuing tributes represented a real threat. Given the choice between a possible and a definite, he risked it all by jumping into the water.

If there is such a thing as a benevolent spirit, Richard must be taxing his patience. The weapon he carried weighed him down. He discarded it and swam. Even if he escaped, he lost his primary weapon. The Game Master removed any unattended weapon. Its loss created a huge disadvantage since everybody wanted him dead. An unimportant fact, it meant nothing if he didn't evade his pursuers.

Richard surfaced under a low waterfall. Not much space, but if he leaned back against the rocks, the water missed his head. He could rest here. He could tend his injuries. Better yet, he could try figuring out how to survive this hunt.

Voices overpowered the waterfall. Richard dared not move as he had insufficient space for concealment. He tried slowing his breathing, afraid that sound might be detected. He reasoned that if he heard them, they should hear him.

"You saw the blood, he has to be nearby," one voice yelled.

"No way I'm going in that water," a second voice replied.

"The stream above the fall is narrow," a nasal voice growled. "Teddy, you follow the stream a hundred paces, cross over and follow it back. The two of us will circle the pond. He had to come out somewhere. If anyone sees his trail, give a shout."

"And take him on by myself," asked the first tribute. "You're not getting rid of me that easy."

"Fine, then we stay together," the nasal voice responded. "But if he gets away, you have guard duty every night until we kill him."

The one identified as Teddy must be standing near the falls. His voice seemed so loud. "What are we going to do with Gloria? She can't walk and now she isn't effective as a guard."

Nasal voice snickered. "Let's just say the supplies are going to stretch a lot further after nightfall." The other two laughed.

It seemed like an eternity before he heard them decide to call off the search. He waited a few moments longer, in case they were attempting some subterfuge. The tumbling water remained the only sound he detected. His luck held. They considered guarding the cornucopia more important than hunting down an injured opponent.

First, he had to get rid of the arrow. Good thing the shaft was wooden. Had it been metal, Richard knew he couldn't break it. Once he snapped the shaft behind the arrowhead, he removed his backpack. That act did him an unexpected favor as it yanked the shaft out through his back.

The pain was indescribable. At least he didn't pass out. If he had, he would have drowned. It might be an easy way out, but Richard preferred fighting for every breath. The wound still bled, but now he needed firewood and his knife to cauterize his injury.

He left the relative safety of the waterfall and followed the stream. His predicament reminded him of his brother's infuriating habit of finding both good and bad in every disaster. He knew the good; he lived, he evaded detection, and he had a plan. To balance the good, he had to face the bad. He lost his weapon, his left arm didn't have much range of motion, and the arrow tore his backpack and survival blanket rendering both useless.

They searched the perimeter of the pond and went upstream a hundred paces. I'll go three hundred paces upstream before I look for a campsite. There's still a lot of game to play.

If Richard thought withdrawing the arrow shaft painful, cauterizing the wound proved that a minor discomfort. He kicked dirt over his fire and walked upstream. Water hid his tracks and the tributes who pursued him wouldn't wander far from the cornucopia. they needed to protect their stash so distance insured his safety.

A stout tree branch, a heavy rock, and wire to secure it made a serviceable club. Its shape made it awkward carrying, but any weapon beat none. His arm still hurt. Richard wondered if he had the strength to deliver a killing blow. He knew he couldn't afford a prolonged battle with any tribute. If he couldn't kill fast, the odds shifted in their favor.

He almost fell into the cave. Again, he thanked whatever spirit guided him. The opening might be a tight fit, but once inside he had room. Best of all, with a little work, he could hide the opening. Only dumb luck would reveal his hiding place.

Time he get ready for his second night. Richard gathered sufficient wood to maintain a warm fire. Since the cave hid the flames, he need not fret about detection. He refilled his canteen at the stream and returned to his cave. Shadows filled the forest as the setting sun brought an end to another day in the arena.

The cannon boomed. He wondered which tribute had died. Perhaps it was the one the nasal voiced boy talked about killing. It mattered little to him since her death didn't affect him. She wasn't real. The cannon just announced one less opponent to face.

Sleep came easy in the warmed cave. Hunger became a concern, but his mind refused to focus on the problem. A fever grew and Richard worried about infection. His instructors emphasized how many tributes died not from combat, but from the arena itself. Exposure and injuries killed just as surely as a blade or club.

Finally, his fever did break, but now hunger dominated his every thought. Richard had no food and he didn't see anything edible during his walk. He placed a hand atop the ashes, cold as the ground around them. Richard rose to his feet a bit unsteady and poked his head outside the cave. Based on the length of the shadows, he may have lost an entire day and night.

Richard had no other option. He needed food, even if he had to spend the night hunting. He considered raiding the cornucopia for supplies, but dismissed that idea. Without a serviceable weapon, three healthy tributes against one didn't sound good.

The full moon provided enough illumination as he foraged for food. Good fortune smiled on him when he found not one, but three bushes full of edible berries. He stuffed them in his mouth as fast as he could swallow as a way to celebrate his luck.

A snapping branch signaled a change in fortunes. Richard turned. He couldn't tell if the approaching tribute was male or female due to the poor lighting, but the interloper's intentions were quite clear. Moonlight caught the blade as it slashed out in his direction. He deflected the blade with his makeshift club, but his adversary split the shaft rendering his weapon useless.

One option remained, his survival knife. His reflexes remained slow due to his recent illness. The knife just cleared its sheath as his opponent advanced. Pain lanced through his chest, far worse than the arrow. As darkness descended, he heard the sound of the cannon heralding his departure from the game.

"Not bad for your first game simulation," said the emotionless voice of a technician. "A reasonable number of kills and a long survival time. Those should help you acquire sponsors."

"The simulation was suppose to last fourteen hours, how many days did it run?"

The technician chuckled. "Your prior experiences with the simulators have been with them set at real time. One hour equaling one hour. We can compress time so that one hour in the simulator feels like twelve hours. You'll appreciate what seems like extra training time, though there is one drawback."

"And what would that be," Richard asked.

"Makes it difficult reviewing the material." The fellow glanced at his watch. "You've used a little more than eleven hours, which equaled five and a half days in the game. An excellent showing compared to most of the other tributes."

It seemed to take forever for the technicians to unhook him. Once released, Richard walked outside and slid into the limo's back seat, exhausted. Every fiber of his being said he had endured five and a half of the harshest days he ever knew. He faced death too many times and with the one exception, he either evaded death or came out the victor. It drained him, both emotionally and physically. His expression must have shown it too.

"Simulators can be tiring, sir," said the driver. "May I suggest you avail yourself of an energy drink until we arrive back at your training quarters."

Best idea he heard all day. Richard popped the cap and took a long drink. The cold chilled him, a sensation he enjoyed. It hit him like a tackle from the rear. The drink might be sealed, but it contained an unknown drug. He tried to yell, but without success. Darkness overtook him.


	7. CHANGE OF VENUE

As the blackness faded, a deep grey showed outside the car's window. When he left the simulator, he saw the night sky. Based on the light, he knew the sun would soon herald a new day. Richard wanted to ask how long he slept, but something else demanded his immediate attention.

Up ahead, he saw a new campsite. Unlike the last one, which seemed more permanent, this one had a temporary appearance. He sensed everything could vanish once he finished here. That thought made him apprehensive.

His limo pulled up to a long building and the driver parked. This had to be another orientation meeting but Richard couldn't imagine what needed discussion. It didn't make sense, but he had about as much chance fighting those in power as a leaf does defying the wind. He stepped inside.

Richard anticipated meeting his mentor or a new set of instructors, nothing else. Instead, he sat in an oversized classroom occupied by most of the other tributes. The seven empty seats attested to their absence. Another half hour passed before they arrived. After so much time isolated, he expected lively conversation. None spoke and all had a vacant expression that screamed leave me alone.

An elderly man entered the room. He had the look of another government official based on nothing more than his pinstriped blue suit and haughty air. The man stood behind a lectern and gave the microphone a quick tap. He hesitated a few seconds, waiting until certain he held their undivided attention.

"Good morning, tributes. I am Mister Oren, this year's Game Master. I am here to lay out the final phase of your training. As you may know, the old hunger games included an unexpected twist every twenty-five years. Since this game is the Fiftieth Capital Hunger Game, we will be doing something special, which I will explain in general detail. No specifics will be given."

If this Mister Oren expected questions, or some sign of enthusiasm, he must be disappointed. A few nervous feet shuffled, disturbing the quiet. Richard's mind fixated on two things, final phase and something special. The rest turned into an annoying noise.

"Very well, let's first address this final phase of your training. Until now, you trained in isolation. For three days you will train as a group. Physical training in the morning, a meal break, weapons training, and you will be ending each day with individual simulator duels. You will be divided into two groups each morning. Group One at Camp A and the rest at Camp B. Group One will be male tributes on day one, sectors ten through eighteen on day two, and even numbered sectors on day three."

Richard wondered why this sudden togetherness. The games allowed but one winner. As an individual, you could prepare yourself to fight others you didn't know. Putting them in such close proximity led to personal connections. That might distract him when the horn sounded the start of the game.

"Every twenty-five years, there's a special game, a Quarter Quell with a specific theme. This year's game will emphasize how the rules of warfare can change. You must adapt or die. Everything you anticipated, based on prior games, no longer applies. The cornucopia is still in the arena, but you'll not see it when the game starts.

"A second change, no opening bloodbath. You will still have opportunities to eliminate your fellow tributes, but it will require as much brains as brawn. Since there is no visible cornucopia, everyone begins the game without any distinct advantage.

"In prior games, sponsors provided a limited number of specialized items needed for survival. This time, your mentor can provide almost anything you desire. Such generosity comes at a price. You'll need to figure out how to contact your mentor. The old style sponsor beacons sometimes missed or they alerted others of a tribute's presence, which is why we have eliminated them in this game."

That changed everything. If the Game Master just threw the tributes into the arena with nothing, it turned the opening into a footrace. The bloodbath would happen, but later, and it would be dragged out as tributes reached the cornucopia. Richard needed to rethink his game strategy.

Game Master Oren wanted their attention and a quick rap on the microphone did it. "Today is an off day. Once you have completed the three day training session, you'll have one day to either rest or avail yourself of a final personalized training session. After that, you'll have a chance to communicate with your family and friends in the morning and do your pre-game interviews that afternoon. The game starts at noon on the day after the interview, which also marks the anniversary date of the Mockingjay Uprising that started six decades ago. May the odds be ever in your favor."

When the man left the room, everyone remained in their seats. Tributes glanced at each other, not sure what to do. One of the girls stood and exited the room. Like a broken dam, the others drifted out of the place. Once Richard got outside, he gravitated towards the parked limos. He climbed into his and the driver started the engine. A few moments later, the driver dropped him off at a nondescript cabin.

Vicky waited inside. She didn't say anything, she just pointed to the sofa. Richard sat. His mentor continued standing at the door until the two ladies entered. Vicky did nothing more than direct them to the sofa he occupied. She drained her cup of coffee and shouted those magic words that guaranteed them absolute privacy.

"Time for me to impart some words of wisdom," Vicky purred. "Every game has four parts. Part one is the bloodbath. Part two, hunter and hunted. Part three is the dissolution of alliances, and part four is the final battle. In prior games, part one lasted no more than an hour. We need to rethink the opening strategies."

Their mentor paced back and forth like a caged animal. Several times she stopped, her brow knitted in deep furrows as she stared at them. Richard almost disturbed the quiet, but her menacing expression had him keep his counsel. A glance at his two fellow tributes confirmed his suspicion that they too feared interrupting Vicky.

"My thought, all three of you should try reaching the cornucopia at the earliest opportunity. Fight as a team for that first day if the opportunity presents itself. Your best chance of survival will depend on speed and power. Richard, that will favor you. Susanna, go for a weapon; your speed in combat should make you a formidable opponent. Rebecca, I'm suggesting you grab a weapon and avoid the bloodbath as you've faired poorly in gang attacks."

"I thought you opposed alliances," Richard said. "Is a hidden cornucopia sufficient reason to discard that advice?"

Their mentor ran her fingers through her long black hair. "You will spend the next three days in close proximity to the other tributes. Alliances are going to happen, it's natural. They can take you deep in the game, but there is a drawback. Since the game allows but one winner, sooner or later, your fellow tributes will turn on you. If you're lucky, everyone just wanders off. If not, you can die when somebody betrays the group. That is why I emphasized evasion tactics. Best you avoid other alliances and rely on yourself."

"You're describing the second and third phase of the game," said Susanna. "How long does that last?"

"Depends on the alliances. Those who hunt tributes last the longest. Everyone wants to reduce the number of tributes. Once you're down to five or less, come the new day the Game Master will do something that will drive everyone towards the final battle. If you're in an alliance, expect treachery. Let me simplify it for you, the final phase is another bloodbath if you're not entertaining the audience. Encourage that, it plays into your strength. All of you."

Richard glanced at the clock. "We have about an hour of privacy. Any suggestions on how we entertain a crowd and stay alive at the same time?"

For once, she considered his observation worthy of response. In the past, one of the girls had to ask the same thing before she answered. His initial gaff still haunted him and she refused to offer him absolution for his offense.

"In your group practice sessions, don't excel at anything. That doesn't mean dragging your feet or making a deliberate mistake with every weapon. You want to practice without looking like a major threat. Scout out your fellow tributes during your communal meal for anyone willing to form alliances. However, when you get to the simulator, hold nothing back. Sponsors are watching those live and it can mean life or death in the arena."

Richard's head motion indicated his disapproval. "Your advice is great here in the training area, but you haven't answered the main question. How do you entertain an audience?"

"Kills keep the crowd entertained. Either the hunt or the actual death will delay that final stage. But don't think you can avoid the inevitable. Once the number of tributes drops below six, the Game Master will force an ending. For now, let's enjoy a good meal."

Everyone went to separate quarters as they prepared for dinner. Richard enjoyed the shower and change of clothing. He stepped out feeling more refreshed than he had in days. His confidence soared as he reviewed his mentor's advice. A chance to interact with the other tributes had its risks and rewards. Best he focus on minimizing the first and maximizing the second.

When he stepped into the common room, something had changed. In the past, Vicky ate with them and acted as either the supervisory adult or a conversational guardian. Tonight, she remained in seclusion. Servants placed an array of food and drink on the table and retired. The two girls approached the table, a bit wary without their mentor. He understood their apprehension as he too thought the sudden change in custom unnerving.

Unless somebody tampered with the clock, they still had another five minutes of privacy. Richard wanted to use that time to his advantage and asked the girls if they intended sharing their observations regarding the other tributes when the next day ended. Their laughter said far more than he wanted to hear.


	8. DUELING TRIBUTES

Richard entered the Group One training area a few minutes early, despite the predawn darkness. It gave him a chance to do a few stretching exercises before the actual physical training class. A check of the surrounding area confirmed what he anticipated. The more athletic tributes arrived early.

He counted six other tributes. Each had staked out a small area of the practice field for their calisthenics. Richard understood their reluctance to mix. Like him, each tribute sized up their opponents as either an adversary to avoid or one that might be useful. At least until circumstances shifted.

The remaining tributes arrived as a group. They didn't come as a team, just as a collection of individuals. Richard guessed their mentors recommended a minimum amount of socializing before training.

Perhaps his plan of an early arrival had backfired. These tributes might be there as individuals, but the latecomers had the better opportunity to talk. Richard noted two or three in guarded conversations. A few tributes scanned the area, but made no effort to approach others.

All discussions ended once they came within listening range. Each tribute staked out separate areas while they did a few limbering exercises. Richard kept searching for any that showed an inclination at conversation without any success. When he found his brother John, he anticipated some type of greeting, not the cold shoulder treatment he received.

A whistle disturbed the predawn quiet. _What is it with coaches and their whistles_? At the far end of the practice area, a tall gentleman waved them closer. Richard didn't hurry, that might label him as too eager for the actual game. The other tributes gathered near the man without invading the personal space of anyone else.

"Let's go over the basic rules. Nobody is to fight anyone else; you'll have time to do that in the arena. Violate this rule and the instigator will be fined. That will affect your sponsor's funds. Cause an injury and you'll have a worse one thanks to our surgeons. Kill another tribute, you die."

After such an inspirational message, the coaches herded the tributes to the track. The starter's pistol had everyone running. A few tried outdistancing the field. Such sprinters would have an advantage racing to the cornucopia. Richard paced himself, keeping near the middle of the pack since they were under no time constraint.

He ran a similar course during his individual training sessions. The track consisted of a five kilometer figure eight. A short sprint followed by obstacles followed by another open field run to the halfway marker. The second half duplicated the first but with the obstacle portion first.

Difficult terrain made the running segments challenging. Richard considered the deep sand pit the hardest. He went from pack leader to rear guard over that particular stretch. The obstacle course had its novel challenges, but nothing that defeated him.

Once he completed the course, he went to the mess hall. Richard staked out a table that afforded him a view of the room while protecting his back. Those tributes who arrived before him did the same. Such a heightened attention to vulnerabilities came from earlier classes. In the arena, such diligence might determine who survived another day.

Richard bolted his meal and exited the room. He had no intention of waiting for those reluctant to leave the hall or those yet to complete the morning run. His departure spurred the tributes who arrived before him. They too left for the weapons training area.

The scale of the training area stunned Richard. He needed to remind himself that the prior training facility was individualized. Here, half the tributes trained together. His mentor warned him about showing too much, but she never explained where to draw the line.

He concentrated on demonstrating his lack of skill with the distance weapons. Richard chucked a dozen spears down the range, his distance and accuracy remained unimpressive. His reflexes with the bow and the pop-up targets pleased him. In his last individual session, he hit three of ten; this time, he scored four targets.

If you don't excel at something, the others will think you held back. As Vicky said, alliances happened in the early stage of the game. Other tributes would seek out those who showed skill in something they wanted. Richard needed to prove his worthiness to anyone considering a partnership. The same criteria held true when he judged somebody here as a possible companion.

Time to impress the competition. He chose the heaviest club available and performed a few limbering moves. He stepped into the holographic simulator and chose the highest level of difficulty. Richard anticipated a superior score. At the other camp, he had this close quarter simulator set at max during his last five training sessions and defeated the machine every time.

He took a defensive stance as the countdown timer turned yellow. A bell rang as the light changed to green. His adversary came straight at him. Richard gave a home run swing that caught the holographic image in mid stride. Another opponent came at him from a different direction. A nimble jump and another strike eliminated the holograph. The remaining eight opponents fared no better.

Then something went wrong. The simulator at the other camp always ended with the tenth adversary. Richard couldn't believe what happened next. Instead of one adversary, he faced two. At first, the two came at him from the same direction. The holographic opponents shifted tactics. They attacked from different angles, including two that jumped down on him, something that never happened on the other simulator.

It got worse. The dueling simulator increased the number of enemies to three. He needed to change tactics, Richard's club did more blocking than bone crunching blows. Instead of a soft shoe shuffle to maintain his balance, Richard resorted to tumbling maneuvers to avoid his adversaries. The time between opponents diminished until he no sooner eliminated one than another took its place.

Richard tired as he sidestepped one adversary and dispatched another. Two opponents replaced the one. Four proved too many. The simulator buzzed, the sound advising him he had taken a simulated blow. As he continued his fight, the buzzer changed from an intermittent one to a near constant sound. A simulator opponent delivered a powerful overhand strike. The light switched to red and the holographic images disappeared.

Instead of showing his mastery of the simulator, it humiliated him. He didn't even glance at the score, it didn't matter. Dead tributes seldom impressed the living. If he claimed something went wrong, or cried foul he would lose whatever dignity he still possessed. Richard retreated to a nearby weight bench.

Other tributes entered the simulator. Richard noticed none set the machine higher than level four of seven. It also did his heart good hearing the buzzer grow in intensity until the sudden silence signaled the tribute's death. Each person exited the machine looking a lot worse than when they entered. Their downcast expressions didn't make his defeat any more palatable.

For the moment, he resolved to avoid the simulator. It didn't help him impress the competition. If anything, it may well have highlighted his vulnerability. He went back to his exercises with his favored weapons. While he did so, he kept an eye on his fellow tributes.

Another meal break, but this time the instructors herded them to the mess hall as a group. They also blocked the exit, which forced those who ate faster to wait. Tensions mounted as everyone stared from instructor to their fellow tributes. It came as a relief when one of the instructors grabbed a nearby microphone.

"Your final session for today is the dueling simulator. Like the game simulator that compresses time, you will be in a one hour battle that will last ten minutes in real time. You will face the seventeen tributes in your group. Sponsors will be wagering on the outcome, the time necessary to win, and your overall scores. Since the bloodbath wagers have been voided, doing well here will mean sponsor funds. However, you must survive the duel to acquire a share of the wagers. As your name is called, you will draw for your simulator room. Once all are ready, we shall begin."

He didn't know if getting called third was good or bad. It did mean he waited longer in the grey void. According to the tech, the computer chose one of his preferred weapons from the selection he made before entering the simulator. His opponent also received a preferred weapon.

One moment he existed in a void, every sensation blocked. The next, the computer's reality bombarded his senses. Sight detected a clear blue sky and an endless horizon. The sound of insects buzzing filled the air. Touch overwhelmed him. A hot sun warmed his face, and the cold water sent a chill up his spine. His knee-high boots sank into the mire of the surrounding swamp, which raised a revolting stench of rotting vegetation. His feet went from dry to soaked in seconds.

Movement proved difficult. His boots filled with water as he struggled to walk and the mud sucked his feet into the quagmire. Somewhere out in this arena another tribute hunted for him. He hoped that guy had the same problem regarding mobility. Since victory here gave him a better chance when the game started, he pushed forward.

Richard feared losing his weapon like he did in the first game simulator. Hard enough to fight in this muck, but doing it without a weapon would assure his defeat. He slipped his wrist through the leather strap at the end of his war hammer's shaft. Once he found his enemy, he could loosen it enough to take a proper grip.

His hopes soared when he recognized his approaching adversary. The boy had to be a young ten, somebody with the unfortunate luck to enter the game in his first Reaping. This tribute stood less than half his height and he bench pressed more than this tribute weighed. He reveled at the idea of an easy kill.

Richard's movements remained slow. His opponent's lower weight kept him from sinking as deep; he had mobility. The boy held two combat knives, his hand wrapped around the grip and his fingers nested in metallic knuckles. Close quarter weapons against his longer reach. The kid wouldn't get anywhere near him. Best this tribute should hope for is a draw.

Pride almost killed him. A slip made him stumble and his body sank under the putrid swamp water. The young tribute darted forward. A wild swing forced his opponent to retreat. He squatted in the water twisting and turning to keep the boy in his field of vision.

His opponent used the arena to his advantage. Richard had to turn fast to keep the other tribute in front of him. Problem was his mass, which made any move slow. If he shifted too fast, he risked falling. The boy had no such disadvantage. He had both speed and agility working for him.

A thick patch of grass gave him an idea. He worked his way closer and found the ground a bit firmer. It didn't qualify as land, but it lacked the liquid consistency of the deeper swamp. Richard slipped his hand down to the very end of his war hammer's shaft. Now he held the weapon by its leather strap. If this didn't work, he might lose the match.

He spun in place trying to follow his smaller adversary. Richard fell into the mud. His last sight confirmed his wildest hope. The other tribute charged him. His war hammer turned into a whirling shaft over his head and he swept his hand in the direction of his enemy. Something happened, but Richard wasn't sure of his success.

The boy lived. Richard missed the kid's chest or head. Yet his trap worked. The boy's left leg swelled to near double its normal circumference. He hobbled instead of ran. Time to go on the offense. He pursued the young tribute. Richard's weapon weaved a figure eight in front of his opponent, always threatening to crush his chest. The boy retreated before his relentless pursuit.

Patience led to victory. When the boy dodged him, his injured leg buckled. Richard jumped forward, lifted a leg clear of the mud and gave him a hard kick. The young tribute fell under the water. Richard planted his foot on the kid's chest, depriving him of air.

Even a newborn rattlesnake has fangs and this tribute had two. His arms cleared the water, each blade biting deep into Richard's upper thigh. Richard screamed. The war hammer continued its overhead arc, the flattened end dropping below the water's surface. A cannon boomed.

The grayness returned. All sensory input ceased. Time lost its meaning as he awaited the next duel. Richard's mind whirled. In all his prior simulator battles, he fought computer generated opponents with programmed responses. No computer controlled the other tributes. They reacted as they would in that situation. If that last duel happened early in the game, his injury might result in death at a later time. Something to remember.

Instructors always said pride killed. He learned that lesson when the simulation placed him in a new arena. Hilly country, rocky grounds, and no hiding places; Richard felt confident. His opponent seemed determined to end this duel fast as he jogged towards him. Richard waited, which proved to be a mistake. He missed the bow the other tribute held. The archer took him out with the first shot.

Richard couldn't afford another inept move if he wanted sponsors. It changed his perspective. All that mattered was winning. His mind no longer thought of his opponents as living beings. They morphed into an impediment to his survival. A quick kill eliminated any pain suffered during the duel. He lost track of the arenas and his opponents.

His world again transformed from a grey nothingness to a new arena. Richard stood in a small field, to either side, a forest of tall trees. In his hand he held a morning star, its studded iron ball dangling from a short chain. A scan of the immediate area didn't reveal his enemy. He decided to hunt rather than wait. How long he searched he didn't know, though any time lost hunting left him less time to dispatch his enemy. He stepped into a clearing just as his opponent did the same.

"Greetings brother."

John had that bemused look whenever he did something that allowed him to gloat. Richard hesitated, but did not drop his guard. He had no illusions about the outcome of this duel. In every physical challenge, he always bested his brother John.

"I'm in a generous mood, Big J. If you retreat and continue in that direction, I'll go the opposite way. A draw has to be better than the crushing defeat you know I'll give you."

John did the unexpected. He laughed. Instead of relaxing, he shifted into a combat stance. His left arm supported a small metallic shield. In his right, he held a smaller version of a war axe.

Richard knew such a weapon could be used at either close quarters or as a short range throwing weapon. Since his brother wasn't carrying anything else, he eliminated the idea of John tossing it at him. That would be a sign of desperation or surrender, something his brother never acknowledged.

"You're always thinking with your gonads and not your brain, Ritchie. That stunt in the simulator this afternoon painted a target on your back as too dangerous. You're too much of a threat. Even worse, I got splattered with the same brush. Any chance of an alliance died then and there."

"I don't know how far I would trust any of them, Big J. There's just one winner and an alliance often puts the best fighter at a disadvantage. His partners team up against him once they've eliminated the weaker tributes. Eventually it will come down to this."

"And that's why none want me, Ritchie. They fear you'll be part of any alliance I join or form. That makes it two against one, nobody likes those odds."

"Walk away, brother. A draw has to help your score. Chances are, we'll never fight in the arena. Like you said, the others will concentrate on me. Nobody will see you as a threat. You're just a wannabe warrior, an easy kill."

"An easy kill? Let's see just how easy."

That was John. Always the one to initiate any action. When they tried out for a baseball team, he insisted on entering the batting cage first. Football, he attacked the tackle dummies before the coach could get the players in line. Lacrosse, John took the defender's stick when he went on the offensive and insisted they switch places on the next attempt. It never changed the outcome, Richard bested his brother every time.

John charged across the small clearing, using his shield as a battering ram. His hatchet came as a follow through. Richard deflected his brother's charge and backpedaled. The deflection worked, but his hesitation almost cost him the duel. John's hatchet scored his chest. The wild swing did nothing more than tear his shirt and leave a minor cut that drew no blood.

Richard unlimbered the morning star, keeping its spiked ball in a slow spin. He left the safety of the trees and circled his brother. He moved to his left, hoping to put the sun behind him. John never checked his surroundings, he charged. Get his brother's blood boiling and John's emotions took over. It was just the nature of their competitions.

The spiked ball smashed into the shield and John retreated. The way he held it told Richard he did some damage. He attacked, maintaining a steady assault against the shield. It kept John on the defensive. They circled each other and the advantage he sought, keeping the sun behind him, shifted to his brother. With his brother playing defense, it never factored into their duel.

So far Richard kept striking the shield with his standard home run swing. Based on how his brother winced each time, his arm couldn't take much more. He charged, but changed his game from baseball to cricket. The powerful uppercut drove the shield too high and his follow-through knocked John off his feet.

He didn't hesitate. His lead foot stomped on the arm holding the weapon while he gave a full swing. The spiked ball connected with Big J's chest. His brother didn't move. For a second, he considered walking away and accepting the draw. In the next second, he let the metal ball hit its target a second time, then a third. Blood coated him and his weapon but the cannon remained quiet. This time he aimed for the head.

A cannon boomed. The grey nothingness returned. It was far too real. Bad enough he killed other tributes without hesitation, but that same ferocity against his brother? Had anyone asked just a week before the Reaping if he could kill, his answer would be a resounding no. Now he had no time for such thoughts, the arena reappeared.

Richard intended to keep count of the duels, but that last one blotted out everything but survival. He fought because his opposite did. The cannon sounded for the final time. Blessed relief came when the techs released him. This training session had drained him both physically and mentally. He knew he fought seventeen battles, but couldn't recall any details about the fights. They remained a nightmarish blur.

The cabin he called home turned into nothing more than an intermediate staging area. He found no comfort there. His mentor did her duty. The other two tributes, guests for the moment, he would see as adversaries if they met in the arena. Even worse, the reality of the game hit him hard. Strange as it sounded, he no longer wondered how long he might survive. Life or death no longer mattered since both were too far in the future. He considered nothing beyond the immediate moment as important.

He opened the door and stepped inside the main room. His mentor approached without her usual smile. Vicky directed him to the long sofa and said nothing as she eased him onto the cushion. Richard didn't move, though his eyes followed the lady as she puttered around the bar. A moment later, she handed him a small tumbler while she arranged glasses for the remaining two tributes. He followed her command and coughed after gulping down the fiery liquid.

"Careful, that happens to be some of the finest sipping whiskey made in all of Panem. I know somebody of your age isn't allowed such indulgences but this is a special occasion."

Susanna and Rebecca entered in near unison. If he ventured a guess, both tributes suffered from the same affliction. Vicky went through her prior routine, directing the two female tributes to the sofa and offering them a drink. In a perverse way, it did Richard's ego good seeing the two older teens suffer the same effect from their first taste of whiskey.

"This happens every year. You would think two weeks of simulated blood and gore would dull your sensitivities. It's suppose to, and yet it doesn't. Somehow, the game never seems real until you face a fellow tribute. I'm taking it you two ladies found it difficult when you dueled? Your brother proved himself a more formidable foe than you anticipated? Take a moment to let the reality sink in, we'll discuss strategies in a moment. We have total privacy for another two hours."

Vicky poured herself a full tumbler of the amber liquid. Richard took a small sip, found it tolerable, and held onto his glass. He noticed how the two female tributes imitated his actions, limiting themselves to small sips. The alcohol had its desired effect. He settled into the sofa's cushion, the events of the day a bad memory best forgotten.

"It will be impossible to review every fight, fifty-one hours over three days. Insufficient time for such things. For now, let's stick to the raw numbers."

She made it sound like some sporting match, not a life or death struggle. Another sip of his drink helped, but it didn't change reality. He wanted their mentor to give him time, but Vicky kept talking. According to her, these matches had a direct bearing on their chances when the real thing started.

"Impressive scores ladies," said Vicky. "Fourteen wins and just three losses each. I see you each selected one weapon three times. At least that guaranteed you the weapon you wanted most. Tomorrow, choose three and don't include today's weapon. I've had alliance inquiries, but they want versatility. You wouldn't last long if the Game Master omitted your preferred weapon or you're unable to acquire it."

"I got an earful from my brother," said Richard. "So let me guess, I blew it."

"You set the bar high today with the training simulator. Not one tribute beat your score. Despite what you think, I suggest you do the same thing tomorrow, but with a different weapon. Same with the dueling simulator. Vary your selection. As to your score, fourteen wins, two losses, and a draw, high enough to get sponsor's attention. Tributes using projectile weapons are a problem. Use the arena against them. Remember they don't have unlimited ammunition."

Easy for you to say, Richard thought. The archer had six arrows, but needed just one. The kid with the slingshot had unlimited ammo since he could use anything lying on the ground. The teen with the crossbow never moved and he didn't intend charging him across an open field, so he stayed in the tree line until the timer expired. If they were the final two tributes, the Game Master would find some way of flushing him out into the open area.

"It is unfortunate you'll not duel everyone and some players you'll fight several times. I've printed out a list showing every tribute's name, face, weapon, and result. By the end of the final training session, you should commit to memory each tribute and their preferred weapon. If you know a tribute's preferred weapon, you can plan a counter. That's a distinct advantage and why I emphasize diversity. Best you not reveal your strength before the game."

Vicky gathered the glasses and placed them in the sink. She checked the timer. Fifteen minutes remained. Susanna and Rebecca shuffled off to their quarters but Richard remained. Call it curiosity, but he had to know.

"How did you do in your training session? I'm wondering how much it helped."

Vicky leaned against the bar, examining him like a bug under a glass. "Our game had a lot more tributes, forty-four to be exact. The Twenty-Fifth Capital Game had two family members, brother-brother, brother-sister, or sister-sister, drawn from each sector and then they filled out the mandatory age groups and evened the numbers by sex. Lucky me, they needed a ten year old female tribute."

"I'll ask again. How did you do?"

"In the bloodbath, everyone looses track of a scrawny kid. That doesn't happen in a one on one duel. I lost most of my duels, which ranked me at the very bottom. I went into the game determined to prove the computer wrong, and succeeded." Vicky strolled to her private quarters. Richard knew she wouldn't allow any further inquiries today. Best he take the material he had and study it. It just might save his life.


	9. FINAL PREPARATIONS

The second day of training resembled the first one. His group met at the second track for their physical exercise. The different terrain and obstacles offered a nominal difference from the other course. Richard paced himself and finished a few minutes behind the sprinters.

The one major difference between this day and the prior one were the tributes. He had to contend with nine females. Richard anticipated an easy time. He never considered any female tribute a real threat. He still believed in masculine domination. The first encounter against a female tribute demonstrated the error of that assumption. She handled her weapon like a master. The other ladies fought with grim determination many of his male counterparts lacked.

Richard considered it good fortune that he met just Susanna. His quick and decisive victory over Susanna earned him a snub by both ladies that night. Rebecca belonged to a sector he wouldn't meet. If he defeated her too, he knew their cabin would experience an artic blast no winter could ever duplicate.

At least his perfect record earned a few compliments from his mentor. He remembered Vicky's advice regarding the arena the next time he faced a tribute with a projectile weapon. He used the high grass and his stealth training to reduce the distance. A tossed rock and his opponent turned towards the noise. That exposed the tribute's back to Richard. The fight ended quick. That one win gave him a stronger sense of accomplishment than any of his other victories.

Somebody enhanced the dueling simulator. After each fight on Day One, the cannon ended the simulation. Now the victorious tribute waited the full hour, which had one advantage. It reduced the sensory depravation time between duels. The drawback, you remained in the arena with the mangled body of the tribute killed until time expired. Close quarter weapons sure made a bloody mess.

Like the first day, none of the other tributes approached him. Richard hoped somebody would propose a partnership, but it didn't seem probable. It might be his imagination or a sense of paranoia, but the other tributes did a lot more whispering in his presence. If he wanted to approach one of them, their expressions dissuaded him.

That night, his mentor reported her progress with sponsors, betters, and meetings with her fellow mentors. Richard considered the many wagers for his victory encouraging. Such betting fueled more sponsorship. It seemed the wise gamblers placed him in the top four. He wondered if the lack of a possible partnership helped him.

Fortunately for the girls, they received several offers for alliances. He felt jealous when Vicky discussed these during their strategy session. He reminded himself such partnerships must eventually fall apart since only one tribute is crowned victorious. Their interdependence gave such teams a distinct advantage in the early stage. However, a strong tribute might die when he or she missed the vital clue before the alliance dissolved, or the unexpected knife in the back.

The final day of organized training followed the same pattern. He completed the outdoor track by finishing near the middle of the pack. Like the second day, he faced nine female tributes in the dueling simulator. In spite of their prior experience, those female tributes who faced him a second time tried acting more aggressive. It didn't help them and he finished the third day without any losses. The one blemish to his perfect day was the one girl who evaded him for the hour and earned a draw.

That night's strategy session followed the same pattern as the prior nights. Their mentor spent most of the time with the two ladies, fine tuning their best options. She speculated on the arena, but she hadn't learned anything more than what Game Master Oren said when they first arrived at this camp. Vicky's quick glance at the clock confirmed his suspicion, they had very little time remaining before their every word went live to anyone watching their personalized game channel.

"Tomorrow is an open day," said Vicky. "Susanna, Rebecca, pursue possible alliances with the tributes I've listed. I'll contact the other mentors and arrange times and places for those meetings. You'll find the older male tributes willing to do almost anything to get you with them. If you're prudish about sex, you might reconsider any alliance. It's the price many female tributes pay to go deep in the game."

Richard enjoyed their reaction. Right now sex existed as something unattainable. He knew the biological aspects since the school taught it. Based on those lessons, his body wasn't yet ready for anything more radical than acne. If he survived the games, he might experience his first shave in another year or two.

Sex had its violent side with older teens. Upper classmen had fistfights at school whenever one guy thought another boy looked at his girl the wrong way. Any rumor of a lover's triangle always ended in bloodshed. Richard considered himself lucky that he hadn't experienced any changes since it kept the girls in his class more distant, an abstraction for idle daydreams. He concentrated on sports, which kept him out of harm's way. Of course the other guys in his class might be wary of challenging somebody like him. Hormone overload didn't equate with stupidity.

"You said none of the other tributes seemed willing to join me," said Richard. "Got any advice?"

"What kind of mentor would I be if I didn't offer some? Follow the same training routine with the track and weapon simulator. Brush up on any classes you think helpful. I would concentrate on evasive classes. Don't be standoffish, but don't seek any of the others. In this game, you can expect to be running solo from the opening gun. Get use to it now."

Vicky's words proved prophetic. Whichever section of the training camp he entered, emptied. When he saw a group working on the obstacle course, his approach had them migrate to one of the surrounding cabins. The weapons room should have tilted when all of the other tributes moved to the opposite side. His session with the simulator set at its maximum level no longer impressed anyone.

It came as a relief when the instructors announced an end to the day. Instead of taking the car, Richard walked the two miles to the cabin. It gave him time to think about the upcoming game. The concept of kill or be killed remained an abstraction. He needed this time to reconcile his mind to its reality.

In less than forty-eight hours, the opening gun initiated the slaughter of thirty-five tributes. If things went like prior games, by the end of the first day, almost half would be eliminated. How does one assimilate that horrifying fact without losing their sanity? He tried. It proved difficult, which made the walk back twice as long.

One look at his mentor and he knew Vicky's mood. Richard considered pissed-off a distinct improvement over her current demeanor. She needed him there and didn't take too kindly to his diversion from routine. He almost yelled at her for the verbal dressing down she gave him. She might be his mentor, but she sure wasn't one of his parents. He didn't need her attitude.

"You'll have to skip dinner," she snarled. "There's just too many things to do before the game. Tomorrow morning, you have a video conference with loved ones and any friends who expressed an interest in a final farewell. In the afternoon, you have your interview, and we need to do a final evaluation of the other tributes after the televised pre-game talk show."

"Will you be offering suggested answers and possible topics for the interview? I know we covered some in earlier strategy sessions, but I'm a bit nervous." Susanna chewed her lower lip while she awaited their mentor's answer.

"I will give you some general hints, and we'll discuss potential issues, but there's no way I can prepare you for every contingency. Remember to take a breath before answering any question posed. That gives you time to consider your answer. This is your last chance to woo potential sponsors. Appearance means everything, exude confidence without appearing arrogant," Vicky offered.

Sleep proved elusive and he knew why. That final farewell, not something Richard wanted to do. How do you say goodbye when you know you're about to die? What do you say to people wishing you good luck? Didn't they understand his success required the death of so many others? What made one tribute more worthy than the next?

Technicians puttered about the video conference room while Richard tried stifling another in a series of early morning yawns. They explained the ten-minute timer and let him know those on the other side of the video feed had the same clock. He learned about the conference kill button he could use if he wanted to end any further discussions. A nod confirming his understanding and they left the room.

The holographic display changed from a colorful abstract to three people. He expected his father, possibly his mother, but not his brother and all three at once. Too bad these holographic communication units didn't allow touch. He tried projecting confidence, imitating his father's stoic expression. Like father, like son, he felt they both failed to maintain that optimistic attitude. The words were there, but everyone suppressed the emotional. Richard took the coward's way out with three minutes to go by hitting the kill button that terminated the link.

It came as a relief when his time expired and he left the room. He never expected anyone else. The relocation eliminated close friends. His arrival at a new school didn't allow him sufficient time to make any friends. Everyone there he considered a face or name worthy of nothing more than a friendly greeting. Even the school's football team would forget him when another season and its crop of rookies arrived at training camp.

Vicky met him at the doorway. "Thank goodness the tailors here know how to work fast. Your suit is done and you can change into your interview outfit when we get to the television studio."

As a mentor for the game, Vicky had the skills. As a personality to know and love, she had too many rough edges. Perhaps mentoring for so many years took its toll on whatever motherly qualities she possessed. She lost them with every death she witnessed. In spite of that, Richard had grown to appreciate the unforgiving role forced upon her. He cooperated with her demands.

Richard had to admit the tailored suit accentuated his muscular build and the light blue color drew attention to his tanned body. He didn't think much of the pink shirt, but did admit it highlighted his dark blue tie. Other than the black dress shoes that pinched a bit, everything was a perfect fit. He could imagine himself doing the town and wooing every lady, the gentleman's gentleman.

All four of them sat in a room devoid of any personality. The one sofa must have been used in every Capital Hunger Game, it looked and smelled that old. Susanna kept wiggling her nose whenever somebody shifted. When Rebecca plopped down between them, Richard almost sneezed from the strong perfume she wore. As to their mentor, she paced the room like a caged animal. Whenever she came to a halt, she glanced at her watch.

"Quick tips for the interview," said Vicky. "Once you enter the room, take three steps, turn left, wave, and go straight to your chair. When you want to look at the audience, face forward. For the commentator, look to your right. Your interview will run two hours, so don't fidget. Sponsors are looking for the best tribute, so think before you talk. Last point everyone, enunciate every word."

None of them got a chance to respond. A slim blond entered the room, pointed at Rebecca, and she left. The door never closed. A second lady, a brunette, motioned to Susanna, and she followed. The final person was a gentleman. Richard didn't hesitate.

The technician he followed must think himself a track star. They moved as fast as possible without running. The gentleman jumped to the side and opened the door in one well practiced move. The studio doorway made him think of a huge mouth about to devour its meal. He tried banishing such morbid thoughts.

The lady inside held up her hand in the universal signal to stop. She installed an earpiece and near invisible boom mike. A quick count and a spoken word or two tested the connection. Satisfied, she ushered him inside. His guide instructed him to stand on a yellow line, which had his nose brushing against a thick green curtain. She did a silent countdown and pushed him through the split in the fabric he never noticed.

Talk about shock. The room consisted of two cameras and one chair. The announcer and the audience didn't exist. Everything within the room was a lime green color, including the walls, ceiling, and floor. The one exception, a cushioned chair at the far end. Richard remembered his mentor's instructions and did as instructed. It felt silly. Once he sat, his earpiece activated. A male voice asked a question. Richard took a calming breath and gave a short answer. For two hours he conversed with the unknown voice and spoke aloud to an empty room. When the technician asked him to leave via a second doorway, a sense of relief overwhelmed him.

It didn't take a genius to figure something wasn't right. If he had a two hour interview, so did the other contenders. With thirty-six tributes, he wondered how the government could ever condense his interview to the five minutes broadcasted the night before the game. Guess he would learn that when the show aired later tonight.

Vicky tuned in the television about ten minutes before the show's air time. As Richard expected, the screen displayed nothing more than the emblem of Panem. Everyone puttered around, arranging food and drinks on the low table. Vicky poured each of them a quarter glass of whiskey and added a generous portion of ice and water. That's when Richard noticed the monitoring lamp glowed a deep red.

"I need you relaxed, not bombed," said Vicky.

"That lamp, how long has it been out?" Richard asked.

"Since you left the cabin this morning. Your personal channel has gone dark until the game, just a lot of rehashing of earlier events. You had complete privacy for your farewells and interviews."

A burst of static announced the commencement of the program. The emcee, Joyce Leggings, strutted across the stage. Somebody must have decided that a golden blond was the fashionable color this year. Richard remembered her as a strawberry blond last year, a color that did nothing to accent her looks. She still acted as if this were some major social event and not the preamble to the slaughter of thirty-five innocents.

"I'm sure everyone is looking forward to this year's crop of tributes," her high pitched voice chirped. "So without any further ado, let's draw our first name."

Joyce reached into a fishbowl and drew out a name. Susanna got the honor of leading off the program. As her name was called, she entered the stage from the right side, walked forward, and waved to the audience. The camera switched to the crowd as they clapped and cheered. By the time it switched back to the stage, Susanna sat in her chair with Joyce to her right.

"Oh Susanna, I hope you'll not cry for me," quipped Joyce. The audience applauded the horrible pun.

Susanna almost dropped her dish. "What the hell is going on? The room was bare, nothing but some icky green drapes. If she ever said that to me, I'd give her an earful."

"Which is why they do the interviews this way," said Vicky. "Like you, it stunned me when I found out these broadcasts are nothing but trick photography. I wanted to tell you before the interviews, but I too have certain guidelines I cannot challenge without endangering my tributes. At least you remembered my instructions, it makes you look like you're there, which enhances your status with potential sponsors who think this live."

They missed the first few questions, but the last one caught Richard's attention. "So how do you plan on evading this year's powerful male tributes? They all racked up an impressive record in the dueling simulator."

"Evasion isn't my style. As to the duels, those were pretend. The real thing will have a different ending when we meet. I guarantee it."

Vicky clapped. "That was perfect, well done, Susanna."

Nobody responded. Joyce had dismissed Susanna and read the name of another tribute who entered the stage. Richard remembered Gerald. He was the huge guy with the long bow and one of three game participants who defeated him in the simulator. Unlike Susanna, he strutted to his chair and settled into it. He flashed some of the whitest teeth Richard ever seen before facing Joyce.

Most of the talk centered on his home life, nothing useful. At last the emcee latched onto something valuable when she asked about his weapon. Richard couldn't decide if Gerald's expression was smug or overconfident. Either way, he didn't like it.

"As you know," he preened, "I was Sector Five's champion junior archer three years running. Put a bow in my hand and nobody will get within a hundred meters. I'm so good I can knock the diamond out of an engagement ring without touching the lady's finger."

Joyce made a remark about cupid's arrow before she dismissed Gerald. The next name she called delayed her appearance. When the emcee called Lisa from Sector Six a third time, she stormed across the stage. Richard remembered her as the youngest female tribute, called to the game ten days after her tenth birthday.

"I refuse to act happy about somebody trying to kill me. Take this interview and stuff it."

The lady emcee watched the girl cross the stage and disappear behind the curtains. She acted a bit flustered, but recovered her composure. "Seems like we always have at least one tribute reluctant to talk. Her loss. What say we move on to our next guest?"

After a short pause, Joyce announced the name of the next tribute. The boy from Sector One was a month older than the girl who stormed offstage. Unlike the girl, he had a youthful bounce as he crossed the stage. Instead of sitting in the chair, he jumped into it. Richard remembered him as the tribute he first fought.

The banter between the woman and the tribute named Toby stayed on generalities. When she asked him about his strategy, he refused to talk, claiming he needed his secrets and didn't want anyone countering them. She asked him about the other tributes by touching on his woebegone record in the duels. He compared those to a classroom and quipped about the real world being a lot different.

A parade of tributes passed across the screen. Joyce seemed reluctant to dig deeper into the tribute's game strategies. She kept to generalities. With the exception of the twelve year old girl from Sector Fifteen, their conversations remained boring. That tribute had what the emcee called a true potty mouth as the girl couldn't string two sentences together without the censors bleeping out her responses.

The emcee appeared relieved when the interview time expired. Joyce faced the audience, removed a handkerchief and acted as if she needed to clean her ears. The crowd roared their approval when she suggested the girl needed an attitude adjustment. She reached into the bowl and announced the next tribute's name.

In came Rebecca. She strolled onto the stage and after turning to the camera, she blew the crowd a kiss. Rebecca took her time getting to the chair, her walk nothing short of a burlesque lady ready to do a pole dance. Every stride she took had the crowd hooting and hollering her name. Joyce maintained a somber expression, which only highlighted Rebecca's sensuality.

"I must say, Rebecca, they do grow them nice down on the farm." The crowd roared its approval of the emcee's comment.

"Our farm raised food animals. You know the ones I mean, chickens, cows, and pigs. Being a farm girl is what will help me win these games."

"How does that help you in the upcoming Capital Hunger Game?"

"Food animals are killed and I did my share of butchering 'em. The Game is nothing more than a slaughterhouse for people. I'll have no troubles removing anyone I meet."

Rebecca's expression must have unnerved the interviewer. She cut the discussion short by wishing Rebecca success in the game. As the tribute exited, Joyce told those watching she was glad she wouldn't face her anytime soon. The same boisterous crowd that greeted the girl became silent as she exited.

Vicky used her glass to salute the girl. "Some of your prospective financial supporters expressed their reluctance about you. They didn't find your overall record inspiring confidence. I do think you might have helped yourself with that answer. Such a bloodthirsty attitude will convince sponsors of your potential. I'm hoping it will translate into more funds for your war chest."

It seemed the station got a real plus with the next two tributes. If one believed in omens, they had it. Both tributes from Sector Fourteen were age specific, both were fourteen, and best of all, they were classmates. Joyce got Alfred to admit his romantic attraction to his fellow tribute. As to Carla, she found the boy noteworthy as far as the Game. She admitted to some affection for the boy but downplayed it due to the lone survivor nature of the game. When Carla left, Joyce lamented the unfortunate fact they couldn't interview the possible lovers as a couple.

The two seventeen year old male tributes hinted at several budding alliances. Each expressed confidence about leading their particular group to the final three or four. They each alluded to their intention of hunting down those they considered the greatest threat without ever mentioning any names. The idea of a gang hunting him down sent a shiver up Richard's spine.

As to the oldest two female tributes, they had no problem revealing their partnerships with several of the males. When Joyce asked each about any worries regarding their male counterparts, each gave the emcee a coy look and asked if any male could resist their charms. That got the audience whistling. Richard thought the one girl's comment about her partners never seeing the knife ill advised. It might destroy whatever arrangement she had prior to these interviews.

Richard found it odd that the station announced breaks without ever taking one. It seemed strange disturbing the continuity of the broadcast. The comment had Vicky choking on her drink as she tried suppressing her laughter.

"My dear boy, this show is transmitted throughout Panem. The Capital District must watch it, but not the other districts. The government limits the Capital District to the official news network. The rest of Panem has four independent entertainment channels. This show has to compete with them for viewers. Haven't you noticed anything strange about these interviews?"

Everything about these interviews hit Richard as strange. "You mean other than the fact that all but one of us will not be returning for a follow-up interview?"

Now Vicky laughed. "She claims to be drawing names at random, yet you never see the name on the paper. It's choreographed. The order of appearance is based on the tribute's ratings or what the station perceives as their appeal. Best lady first and work it down to the tributes with the greatest interest last."

The truth to that statement came with the conclusion of the next tribute. Joyce held the bowl up at chin level. Her hand swirled the two balls within the container. Those in attendance turned silent.

"Well, the odds have indeed favored us this night," said Joyce. "I know everyone has been eagerly waiting for the comments of our two brothers. Let's see which one we get now and who will be our final interviewee." The bowl dropped below the camera's view and she withdrew a ball. "The odds do indeed favor us; give a warm welcome to John of Sector Seven."

John strolled to his chair and glanced over to the emcee. "I must say, you're a lot better looking live. The camera doesn't flatter you at all."

Richard admired his opening line as it put the announcer on the defensive. It wouldn't matter if the personality were male or female, he just stole the lead. Once John took to the offensive, he didn't relent. With every question, he made it sound as if the prompt came from him. Even the judicial editing could not steal his command of the situation.

"I know what this audience wants, they know about our duel in the simulator, and they are eager to hear how I'll handle the real thing. A lifetime studying my brother allows me to notice things others might dismiss. The simulator showed me how he handles a weapon, I'll be ready for our next encounter."

It almost seemed anticlimactic when the announcer called him. Richard thought his little salute towards the audience a nice touch and his wave to them after he sat quite impressive. Vicky didn't say much, but the reaction of the other girls indicated they didn't find it too appealing.

Everything after his introduction went as expected. A question or two regarding his parents and their divorce as well as his impression regarding his new school and his success in sports. The topic of his preparation sessions he dismissed as nothing more than an extension of his athletic training. After dancing around the primary question for half the remaining time, the hard questions started.

"So Richard," asked Joyce, "can you take out your brother when the battle is real?"

"I doubt it will ever come to that. There are thirty-four other tributes and any could kill either or both of us. My brother always favored brains over brawn. Problem is, the games favor the better killer."

"I'm sure your parents expressed their concerns during your farewell call. Did they say anything about which of you they hope returns?"

"If the odds favored my parents, both of us would come home," said Richard.

"And on that note, this is Joyce Leggings, signing off from our remote studio with all our tributes. Good night everyone."


	10. LET THE GAME BEGIN --- DAY ONE

"We talked for two hours and they edited our responses to fit their time slot," Richard snapped. "What happened to all the stuff not used? And I don't know about you two," he said pointing at Susanna and Rebecca, "but some of my answers were modified."

"I told you this show competes for viewers outside the Capital District. They need drama to capture viewers. If you ever question them about any discrepancy, they'll call it creative license. As to the rest of your interview material, what do you think they use during dull periods on your personal channel," Vicky asked.

Their mentor turned off the television, but remained standing by the bar.

"As you know, the twist to the Second Quell is the hidden cornucopia and the new sponsor setup. I'll give you my final tips for the game, but there is nothing more I can do. All mentors have been kept in the dark regarding the new sponsorship process, so keep alert. Same with this hidden cornucopia, I have no idea what our Game Master has planned."

Over the next hour, Vicky touched on as many topics as she could regarding the game. She warned the girls about overstaying their welcome in any alliance. She stressed the need to find the basic survival necessities, food, water, weapons, and shelter. Vicky warned Richard about getting caught in any tight places since others might try hunting him as a pack.

The clock bonged the hour. Vicky brought over three vials. She handed each the vial with their name. She poured water into their glasses.

"The medication is a sedative. When you awaken, you'll be in the dressing room with three hours to game time. Don't try faking sleep, your biofeedback chips will tell them if you do. The needle is worse. Take it from one who learned that the hard way."

XXXXX

An incessant noise punctured the darkness. Richard tried holding onto the fragments of the dream without success. His palm slapped the red button and the irritating sound ended. He wondered if the silence wasn't worse.

Like the first time, he awoke naked. As he swung his legs over the bed's edge, he examined the room. On one side, the facilities. Across the room, a bench with his clothing. In one corner, the game platform. Next to it, the countdown timer.

Zero days - two hours - fifty-nine minutes, with the seconds clicking off too fast to read.

His clothing sat on a shelf, folded as if there for sale at some store. The color didn't appeal to him, its predominant color, grey and brown patches intermixed with irregular black lines. The one distinctive feature, the red number sixteen on his right sleeve. Large enough for the cameras, but muted to the human eye. He dressed fast, wanting as much time wearing what must last him a week or more. At least everything was a perfect fit, unlike his shoes while training.

Somebody had replaced the bed with a virtual smorgasbord while he dressed. The table contained all manner of breakfast foods. Vicky's description of the pre-game feast didn't do it justice. So much food for the taking. The Game Master must be a bit paranoid as he provided no utensils. The thought of attacking somebody with a paper plate made him giggle.

He followed his mentor's suggestion to eat at a slow pace. Best to be full but not stuffed. The same with the drink. Better to be a little thirsty than wondering if your kidneys would suddenly void themselves.

Richard followed a game day routine he used while playing sports. He ate until sated, used the facilities, and performed a few light warm-up exercises. When he finished his exercises, he returned to the food table and repeated the same pattern. He concentrated on foods high on protein and fruit juices until a mechanical voice announced final call for food. Richard washed down his last meal with water before returning to the toilet.

Time continued its progress. Richard kept his back to the countdown clock. He finished his stretching exercises just as the computer voice announced the closing of the bathroom in two minutes. He relieved the pressure on his kidneys and exited just as the computer voice ordered him to vacate the room.

For the first time since he awoke, Richard checked the clock.

Zero days - Zero hours - fifteen minutes.

When the countdown timer reached the ten minute mark, his live feed started to broadcast. At eight minutes, he must step onto the platform. On the five minute mark, a bio scanner confirmed he carried no food or water into the arena. It also verified he hid no contraband, such as weapons or equipment that might give him an unfair advantage. When the countdown timer hit the three minute mark, the tube sealed him onto the platform. Richard had to admire the people running the game, everything adhered to the schedule.

Inside the tube, it reminded him of the simulators. Everywhere he looked, a uniformed grey. He saw nothing beyond the plastic surface that surrounded him. For one crazy moment, Richard wondered if this might be some elaborate hoax, a simulation. He pinched himself and felt the sensation. In all his previous encounters with the simulators, he could neither touch himself nor experience any pain before they operated. _Yes, this is all too real_.

A mechanical voice intruded on his solitude. "Prepare for assent. Thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight . . . ."

Existence narrowed down to a mechanical voice that hadn't stopped. "Eighteen . . . seventeen . . . sixteen . . . ."

The grey around him faded from top to bottom. Though the platform rose, he remained underground. Blackness, total and absolute, surrounded him. As if on command, six lights appeared above him. Rope ladders unrolled as they fell to the ground. A check around him revealed five other tributes standing on darkened platforms, each facing one of the hanging ladders. The Game Master told the truth, the cornucopia remained hidden.

Richard tried scanning the darkness, but what little light entered, did not add sufficient details to the underground chamber. It did nothing more than illuminate the upper segment of the rope ladder. The countdown passed the ten-second mark.

He needed time. In every game the initial starting location contained useful items. What he could see within the cavern remained devoid of anything useful. No weapons, supplies, or essential equipment within his line of sight. Even worse, where were the other thirty tributes? He knew the audience demanded an initial bloodbath. The countdown timer became silent; less than five seconds remained.

Time expired. The opening gong sounded and Richard reacted. He ignored the room and made for the nearest rope ladder. Good thing he practiced on this item during the training phase. He knew his time ranked quite high on this particular obstacle. He grabbed two of the ladder's rungs. He pulled himself upward using his arms until he secured both feet on the ladder.

Richard kept his eyes focused on the light. First time he tried the rope ladder, he looked down and froze. He couldn't afford that happening a second time. He focused on the top. He drove himself for more speed. If he got out before the other tributes, it might give him a distinct advantage.

Daylight and solid ground never looked, or felt, so good. As he cleared the opening, he located the manhole cover. Richard rolled the heavy metal disk over the entrance. It fell into place, sealing the hole to anyone using the same ladder. That made him think of the other openings. Did he have time to block them?

Another tribute struggled to reach the surface. His hesitation cost him. At each of the other five holes, tributes appeared. Whatever advantage Richard had before they exited the cavern vanished. The odds shifted to them if the cavern floor had contained anything he missed.

People always considered sports nothing more than a physical battle. They overlooked other aspects of a game only players experienced. Richard had a sixth-sense when it came to danger. It alerted him to the linebacker coming in fast from his blind side. He trusted that feeling and right now it was sending him a loud distress signal. Something didn't fit.

Every nerve screamed a warning that told him he must run. He didn't question that inner sense of danger. Richard fled from the manhole. He raced down the street he faced, determined to put as much distance between him and whatever threat he had somehow missed. As he ran, his mind tried to grasp the danger.

It hit him. As he exited the underground cavern, a six-sided clock counting downward sat on a patch of grass visible from any of the manholes. Two things didn't make any sense. In all the prior games, the tributes lacked any means of telling time since it wasn't important. There was a clock on the television, but it counted up, marking the game's duration.

 _What makes a second countdown necessary_? Richard turned around, facing the traffic circle where the game started. Even at his distance, he could read the clock. Less than five seconds remained. The last tick of the timer expired and the clock's light darkened.

The ground shook hard enough that Richard almost lost his balance. The tremor affected the other five tributes a lot worse since they were closer to the manholes. Not one maintained their footing. Just as the ground movement ended, five columns of flame shot fifty feet into the air.

A sixth one went up just half as high. The manhole cover Richard had dropped in place rose atop the flames. It spun end over end like the flip coin some demonic referee tossed into the air. Again, Richard's inner sense of danger clamored for attention. He didn't need it, the menace quite apparent. Like some missile, the metallic disk raced towards him. Richard ran.

He dashed down the street at an angle, trying to put distance between him and the projectile. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed its direction and he moved away from the anticipated landing area. The heavy clang and the sound of the manhole cover rolling across the cobbled streets had Richard dodging into the first alley he passed. He pressed his back against the building until the sound of metal ceased.

Richard had all the clues he needed. This arena represented a deserted city, perhaps even a major one. He knew the location of the five tributes behind him. If the column of flames ahead of him represented a similar setup, he had a general idea where six other tributes struggled.

Another oddity came to Richard's mind. Instead of the game platforms being circular, they were in the shape of a hexagon. He wondered if the other tributes came up in a similar traffic circle. The six must form a circle around the cornucopia. He knew the general location of two, so if he faced one and had his back to the second, the cornucopia must be somewhere to the left or right. He needed a higher vantage point.

Somewhere and everywhere the sound reverberated. The cannon signaled a tribute's death. He tried keeping a count, but the surrounding buildings distorted the sound. He couldn't remember if it boomed earlier. If he survived this first day, he could find out who and how many once night settled over the arena.

Further down the alley and against the far wall, a trash dumpster. He raced over and lifted each lid. It contained nothing. Richard trotted to the end of the alley. It branched left and right, but did not exit into another street. He could remain out of sight by standing on either side, but anyone coming into the alley would trap him there.

Richard needed a weapon and a plan. Two loose bricks placed in his pockets gave him something better than his fists. He returned to the dumpster and pushed it closer to the fire escape. When he stood atop the dumpster, the fire escape hung just beyond his outstretched hands. He vaulted off the dumpster and reached for the nearest rung. It should have come down but rust locked it in the up position. He climbed the metal rungs like he did the rope.

At the fourth floor landing, he hesitated. An open window offered him concealment within the room. It seemed too providential. Richard climbed over the railing and shuffled along the building's wide stone ledge. He managed to make the turn without loosing his footing, which must be a fatal fall at this height. He used one brick and smashed in the first window he reached. Once he knocked out all the glass, Richard entered the room. For the moment, he felt safe.

Voices announced the arrival of others. Richard moved away from the window, feeling exposed in a vacant room. He chided himself for such stupidity. His mentor gave him two warnings, avoid congested areas and beware of gangs. Inside a room, he ignored the first. Outside the building, the second threat approached.

"I'm telling you, he ran this way," said one female voice.

"Why did you stop chasing that other guy? I told you Richard never made it out, he was on the ladder," a male voice said.

A second female voice had that exasperated sound teachers made with a dense student. "You're wrong, I saw him run when that manhole cover flew towards him. That's why I sided with Jasmine. Our biggest threat is Richard."

"None of us have a real weapon," the boy said. "A rusty piece of metal isn't much of a club."

"He's unarmed and alone," said Jasmine. "Three against one, it's enough, so stop your whining."

The other female's voice chirped in an excited manner. "Somebody moved that dumpster. See how the gravel's been disturbed?"

Richard dared not move. Somebody flipped the lid to the dumpster open, but it clanged shut a few seconds later. The silence proved worse than their earlier conversations. Where he stood, he had no way of determining what they might be doing.

The sound of metal hitting metal alerted him to their location. Verification came when several boots clumped on the fire escape. He ran into an adjacent room and risked a quick look. Three tributes climbed the rusty ladder until they stood outside the open window. He wasn't in there, but would they search the other rooms?

He didn't intend dying on the first day and in the first hour of the game. Richard took a fighter's stance, a brick in each hand. Not the best of weapons, but better than his fists. The room had one door, that might work to his advantage if he could keep them from entering the place. Plans of attack and defense flew through his mind as he considered the possibilities.

The cannon boomed three times in rapid succession. It didn't make sense. What happened? He remained in the room, awaiting the arrival of those who climbed the ladder. Nobody rattled the doorknob or kicked in the door. Was it possible that the cannon signaled the death of the three chasing him?

Curiosity got the better of him. Richard shoved the bricks back into his pockets and yanked the door open. He sprinted to the far end of the hallway towards the fire exit sign that swayed on one nail. He hesitated a moment, fearing they might still be searching the apartment. A raised boot and a firm kick gave him entry to the room.

He remained outside. A visual inspection showed no signs of the tributes or any danger. Richard knew three entered the room before the cannon fired. Try as he might, he couldn't see anything that would have caused their quick death. Richard tired of the puzzle, but considered it his good fortune that it saved him from his own stupidity.

Time to leave this place. He backtracked until he again stood on the fire escape. The first time he crossed the ledge, it scared him. The second time proved no easier. Richard hesitated by the open window. His first thought, get as far away as possible, but he still needed a high vantage point. He climbed to the roof.

That inner alarm bell clamored for attention. Danger lurked, but where? If he climbed onto the roof, could there be another trap? Richard couldn't risk it. He held onto the low wall and inched his way along a very narrow ledge. One brick dislodged, but he maintained his grip. He needed to act; he swung his legs over the wall and dropped onto the roof.

Nothing happened. So far, so good. Richard probed the rooftop as he worked his way closer to the fire escape. When he found the pressure plate, he sighed in relief. The thing brought back memories of fixing rat traps in the school's basement. Handle it wrong and the trap snapped on your fingers. If you were lucky, you would have a bad bruise. In this instance, bad luck would have your chance of survival reduced to zero.

It didn't take a genius to figure out how to disarm the trap. Doing it was another matter. Richard's fingertips turned red and tender as he removed four wires by unscrewing a locking nut that encircled each wire. Curiosity had him examine the immediate area, looking for whatever the wires triggered. In a recess hidden by a flimsy piece of tar paper he found the first claymore mine.

Now that he knew what to look for, finding the other three proved easy. As far as he could tell, anyone standing either on the presser plate or between it and the fire escape would be killed. Since he removed the wires, he had nothing to fear. For the moment, he felt safe. Nobody could approach him unseen. Come nighttime, he might reattach the wires and any tribute attempting to attack him would set off the trap.

If he camped near the center of the roof, he remained hidden from view. Nothing could be called a safe haven in the game but anyone coming up the fire escape would announce their presence. Richard had no intention of letting them go down alive. One way to the roof remained, a stairway door on the opposite side of the building.

"Two ways up here, bet there's a second pressure plate right outside that door," Richard muttered. "I'll leave it alone and nobody can surprise me."

Vicky stressed the importance of voicing his strategies whenever alone. Sponsors loved knowing what their particular tribute planned. A favorable impression translated into additional funding. Even an unfavorable one might persuade somebody to invest in his future just to see if his crazy idea worked.

Not that it proved too helpful. In all the previous games, sponsor gifts drifted down on parachutes, a loud pinging sound announcing their arrival. This year, the Game Master changed the rules. In this game, tributes must contact their mentors regarding anything needed from the sponsors.

Game Master Oren omitted the how. For some reason, the idea of phoning them, or waiting for the mailman to make a special delivery sprang to mind. He kept imagining old man Johnson riding his rickety bike down the street while wearing his messenger's hat, calling out his name, and ringing that tinny bell on the handlebars. The more he thought about it, the harder he laughed.

Focus, he needed to focus. He approached the street side wall. A vast city stretched out in all directions, yet he knew some type of force field encircled the arena, limiting the range of tributes wandering throughout the place. He searched the landscape, hoping to find a clue regarding the location of the cornucopia. If only it had been that easy.

Everywhere he looked remained in long shadows. That thought brought him back to the reality of the game. Richard worked so hard disarming the trap, finding the four explosives, and checking out the rest of the roof, that he lost all track of time. A turn to his right revealed a half circle of sun above the horizon. In another hour, darkness would make moving too dangerous. Best he hunker down for the night. He just hoped it didn't get too cold.

Richard remembered five other tributes in his cavern. Richard thought three died in the room below him. If the one tribute spoke the truth, the remaining person in their group ran in the opposite direction. He didn't think the fellow would double back. So for tonight, he could leave the Game Master's trap unarmed.

He recalled Vicky saying the arena covered a twenty-five mile circle. In all the prior games, the tributes started at the very center. This time, they entered the arena somewhere near the outer edge. The cornucopia must be near that central spot, but finding it would be the biggest challenge. Make a wrong turn and he would loose valuable time.

His second priority, contacting his mentor and thereby getting to his sponsors. The how had to be something both obvious and hidden. As much as he laughed about postal service or a telephone, it could be that transparent. Tomorrow, while he made his way towards the center of the arena, he would look for anything resembling a communications station.

Survival depended on it. He could go without food for the duration of the game. Not a wise thing as he had to maintain his strength, but given a choice not his highest priority. Water he must have. A person couldn't last longer than three days without it. Something told him there were few lakes or rivers in this city and he bet the force field around the arena kept the place dry.

Music played. The introductory fanfare ended and a new song started. This one he recognized, the National Anthem of Panem. He stared up at the sky, now replaced by a grid of some unknown energy. A third of the way into the song, a massive sign appeared.

"Give honor to those who have fallen."

That message faded and the faces of the tributes appeared. Richard anticipated a picture of his brother, but it didn't appear. The very last face, and therefore the first to die, surprised him. Susanna's face smiled down on him for a few seconds before the music stopped. He remembered how her record on the obstacle course didn't impress anyone. Richard guessed she must have fallen from the rope ladder or tried finding an alternative way out of her cavern. Either one proved fatal.

A moment later, the energy grid reappeared. Vicky told him the audience didn't get to see this portion of the game. It was strictly for the surviving tributes. The Game Master knew few kept track of how many times the cannon sounded, so he projected a count. Somebody figured this inspired the remaining tributes as it gave them hope. It came in three colors, red at the top, yellow in the middle, and green at the bottom. It let you know how many were dead, injured, and unharmed. His mentor called it the traffic light.

13 - Red

03 - Yellow

20 - Green.

Richard felt good knowing he was green.


	11. DAY TWO - SPONSORS

Sunlight disturbed Richard's sleep. Last night surprised him. No cannon boomed. Maybe none of the other tributes considered hunting a worthwhile activity with so few tributes within striking distance. You might have an idea about the five who appeared in your cavern, but the location of the rest remained a mystery.

Richard didn't expect anyone nearby after three tributes from his group died. Still, he made a quick visual check from the rooftop, which revealed no movement. Depending on what he found today, he might return here for the night. He still didn't have any idea which direction he should go and he needed to find the cornucopia.

He hustled down the ladder, pausing long enough to check out the room where three tributes died. The open window still acted as a lure despite him knowing the fate of any that entered. He continued down the fire escape.

Richard remained suspended above the ground since the lowest portion of the metal ladder refused to move. The drop didn't bother him, he just thought of it as an inconvenience. Before he left the alley, he checked the dumpster. Like yesterday, it contained nothing. He propped one lid open as a way to confirm nobody found his hiding place.

"I came from the left, I think I saw flames to the right. That means I have a fifty-fifty shot of going in the right direction," Richard whispered under his breath.

At least he would have no problem finding his roof. The building had a statue of some hideous beast at each rooftop corner. He laughed at himself for never noticing something so unique while standing over them. His moment of levity finished, Richard returned to the traffic circle where he had first emerged.

Six streets to explore. Richard chose the first one to his right. He kept to the center of the paved road. If anyone hid within the buildings and tried to attack him, he had time to react. Of course that assumed none of the tributes found a projectile styled weapon. Anyone with a spear would find him the perfect target. Best he keep alert.

The first fire hydrant he found attracted his attention. Unlike the surrounding area, the fire plug showed signs of recent maintenance. Instead of rust or a faded color, it had a fresh coat of green paint, which is what drew him closer. He unscrewed the side covers, but nothing happened. A look inside revealed nothing useful. Richard tried turning the odd shaped bolt atop the hydrant, but couldn't get a firm grip.

After passing the first hydrant, he ignored the rest. He did find the things added color in an otherwise drab landscape. Such pretty colors didn't help him find food, water, or the cornucopia. It also didn't give him any clue about contacting his mentor.

Back home, he enjoyed walking. He would peer into every shop window at the merchandise. He skipped the first few he passed, then chided himself for such stupidity. Now he wandered from store to store. Each time he drew closer to a display window, he shifted the brick he carried, just in case of trouble.

Some stores had a solid wall with an open door, often hanging by a lone rusty hinge. Those with a display window might be intact or broken. Regardless of its street side, the interior contained nothing more interesting than a few manikins clothed in rotting fabric that tore at the slightest tug.

Richard circled each block, which slowed his progress. Now it seemed his diligence might pay dividends for his efforts. Though the sign appeared faded, he could read it. Something almost impossible to do with most of the business establishments. Due to the missing letters, it took him time deciphering the sign. He stood outside an old fashion hardware store.

Richard lowered his shoulder and forced his way into the place. Every part of his mind screamed there was something useful here. Anticipation didn't live up to reality. He found a can of motor oil, several glass bottles, a few rags, and a partially filed gallon jug labeled petrol. Nothing useful unless one of the derelict cars had keys, inflated tires, and operated. He didn't expect such generosity from a Game Master.

By the time he finished his search of the hardware store, the sun passed its zenith. He continued what he could only describe as window shopping. At each intersection he verified his location by hunting for the statues mounted on the corner of his building.

A signpost twirled in the light breeze, much like other signs he passed. Where the other placards displayed a weathered condition, this sign had bright colors. As Richard drew nearer, he discovered one side showed lettering. The word "Ubertas" did nothing to identify the establishment's business. A look through the window revealed empty shelves.

He stepped beyond the store, than stopped. Richard returned to the window. A second look confirmed what he thought he had seen the first time. It sat on the counter next to a mechanical cash register. The straw knickknack resembled a horn of plenty. Dust covered it and cobwebs masked its shape, which explained why he overlooked it the first time.

Curiosity got the better of him. He entered the store, but stayed alert. That sixth-sense of his tingled, but he couldn't interpret it. Did it indicate danger or opportunity? Richard checked the floor first, wary of anything that might hide a pressure plate. Nothing more than shattered glass and thick dust. He stood at the counter and examined the weaved straw horn. A tag labeled "Egeria and Friends," leaned against it.

Richard lifted the straw horn of plenty from its resting place. Heavy steel plates fell out of the ceiling. They covered both the display window, the front door, and the back door he had discovered earlier. The hollow boom as they sealed him within the room caused him to jump. He did a quick search of the room but found nothing threatening him. He returned the horn to its holder, hoping it might remove the barrier.

"Greetings Richard, I wondered if you would be fortunate enough to find this place."

Vicky stood in front of him, a ghost of her real self. Somewhere within the room, a holographic projector displayed the image of his mentor. It seemed weird staring at his mentor who wasn't there and at the same time, interacting with her. Back home, he might liken her to a friendly ghost since her image remained a translucent whitish color that still allowed him to view the dingy wall behind her.

"I'm sure you're following the game. What can you do for me," Richard asked.

Vicky drew a box in the air and a countdown timer appeared. "We have this long, so listen. Sponsors made funds available if you found this place. Now that you're here, you can spend it on anything you need, but take care of what you buy. You cannot return to this sponsor shop and you must kill another tribute to enter another sponsor's shop. So consider this place a one time only opportunity. Tell me what you want and I'll offer you what options you have. If I say no, don't argue. Ask for something else."

"Water, that's got to be my first priority."

"One full water kit, approved. It comes with canteen, treatment chemicals, and a necessary accessory."

"Any chance of getting a weapon?" Vicky nodded. "Broadsword and battle axe are too cumbersome, a club has too many variables and we don't have time to consider every option. Can I have a morning star?"

"Weapon selected and approved."

"Can I have a backpack?"

"Specify size, you have tiny, small, medium, large, and giant. The bigger you get, the more it contains."

Richard asked for the giant and a few seconds later, Vicky rejected it. He went down a size and got an approval. "Replace the large backpack with a medium one."

Vicky appeared surprised based on his interpretation of her image. "Your selection of a medium backpack is approved. You gave up a few real necessities there, Richard. Hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I, Vicky. Last item, a survival knife. It's too versatile a tool to overlook. If I had to downsize the backpack, I must be low on funds."

"Good thinking there, Richard. Let me check your account." Richard fidgeted while the timer kept clicking down. Vicky returned. "You can get either a standard combat knife or if you want to try buying anything else, just the basic knife."

"I'll take the combat knife. I might be disappointed by my choice, but that will have to do. Say, you couldn't give me any clues where the cornucopia is, could you?"

"Those running the game would kill both of us if I did something that stupid, literally. Since you've made your selections, I can now pass on this warning. Get out of that room before the timer hits zero. If you're still there, hidden lasers will kill you. I cannot offer any help or clues regarding an exit. May the odds be ever in your favor."

Vicky's image disappeared, but the timer remained. The floor vibrated and the display case rose. All of the items he requested rested on a flat counter hidden by the floor. Richard grabbed the backpack and stuffed the box labeled water kit inside. He fastened the knife to his web belt and slipped his hand through the strap at the end of the morning star's handle. Once he removed the last item, the counter slid down until the old counter rested in its original spot.

The timer read three minutes. He looked everywhere for a hidden button or lever. Nothing appeared to operate the steel plates. He tried lifting one, but it didn't budge. He had less than a minute and still had no idea how to escape.

He found it in the far corner. Instead of a wooden floor, the room had ceramic tile. Of the dozen distinctive designs, half showed a large hexagon pattern. Richard jumped onto the first one. A loud humming sound grew in intensity. The timer now read less than fifteen seconds. Richard glanced down and felt a sense of relief. A grey tube rose to encircle him. The last thing he saw was the countdown timer clicking off the last seven seconds.

No lasers hit him. He couldn't leave his tube, but he still lived. Richard muttered a short prayer, not sure any deity would answer. The ground shook and he had the sensation of falling. The tube dropped sideways and he adjusted his position so he faced upward. He started to spin, not fast enough to make him dizzy, but enough to destroy any sense of direction. The sudden acceleration caught him by surprise.

It didn't last long. The abrupt stop had him slide a short distance in the direction he considered up when he first stepped on the tile. A brilliant light filled the tube as the grey cover rolled open. Richard found himself in a small tunnel with a metal ladder leading upward. He verified that nothing had fallen out of the backpack or off his belt before grabbing the lowest rung of a metal ladder.

"This device will self-destruct in thirty seconds . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-eight," said a computer generated voice.

Richard needed no further inducement. He rushed up the ladder, though his mind wondered how he would dislodge the cover. If it were metallic like the ones from the traffic circle, he had just trapped himself. He found a button next to the ladder near the top. With the timer counting down, he didn't hesitate. Richard punched the green button. Two metal arms slid out of a hidden recess and lifted the cover clear of the tube. He scrambled from the hole and rushed down the street.

Unlike the gigantic explosion that started the game, this proved anticlimactic. A soft boom followed by a cloud of dust that shot up no more than a foot announced the destruction of whatever he rode. He gave a look into the hole and saw nothing that invited a second look. Even the ladder laid at the bottom of the rubble.

A walk to the nearest corner reoriented him. He located the place where he slept last night. Richard debated returning to the rooftop or finding another place to inspect the gear he had acquired. Richard knew the roof offered absolute safety from other tributes. He had no idea if he could find such a secured location while wandering the streets. He jogged back to what he thought of as his personal fortress.

The return trip didn't take much time. Even better, Richard never saw anyone while he jogged to the alley and the building's fire escape. His luck held. The dumpster's lid remained open. A quick check inside revealed no hidden danger. Best he check the dead ends of the blind alley. No sense allowing anyone to surprise him.

He jumped on the dumpster, kicked the lid down and leaped for the ladder. He rushed up to the roof and inched his way along the narrow ledge while holding onto the wall. Once clear of the pressure plate, he climbed over the edge. A quick check showed nobody had tampered with either the pressure plate or the four disconnected explosives. Richard probed the roof for the trap near the rooftop door. Everything remained undisturbed.

Richard sat down, his back against the wall. None could see him from the ground and he would hear anyone foolish enough to try approaching via the fire escape.

"I'm surprised nobody either reset the trap or rigged it to explode when I returned. My good fortune." Richard hoped anyone monitoring his channel realized he maintained a high sense of awareness.

The morning star was a standard one, no spikes on the three pound metal ball. His combat knife proved to be the greatest disappointment. Unlike the survival knife provided in training, the pommel lacked the homing beacon arrow. No doubt the Game Master considered that too easy an option. When he unscrewed the top, instead of a dozen strike anywhere matches, he had four.

The backpack contained a flimsy cotton blanket. When he held it up, it didn't provide much coverage. It reminded him more of the beach towel he used during the summer rather than anything intended to keep him warm. The thing didn't even have a waterproof side. First rain would more than double its weight and reduce its usefulness to near zero.

The coil of rope he almost discarded. An optimist would say he had fifty feet. Richard figured he had about ten pounds of dead weight. He didn't see a use for it right now, but he wasn't foolish enough to discard it.

Like a kid getting his birthday gift, he ripped open the box marked water kit. It felt so heavy that he envisioned sufficient water to last him more than a week. Richard should have known better. He had a canteen with a clip for his belt. A large and very empty canteen. The chemicals necessary for treating the water said it could do twenty canteens. He hoped the game didn't last long enough for him to learn if that claim proved accurate.

What made the box so heavy? He pulled out a metal bar that measured a little more than the distance from his elbow to his fingertips. Some comedian in the game's command center must have thought painting it a bright blue enhanced its appeal. Half the bar was round and had a grainy feel. The other half was flat with a strange shaped hole at the end. One side read this side up, which explained the strange ridges along the opposite side's outer edge. Richard almost chucked the heavy object over the roof. He needed water and he gets something heavy for his backpack.

Sponsors preferred active tributes. He had a weapon and a means of getting water. At least he hoped he did. Richard stacked the blanket and coiled rope against the low wall that circled the roof. A calculated risk since the Game Master might reclaim the unattended gear. So just before he climbed over the edge, he announced his intention to sleep there tonight. When he considered the quality of the blanket and the extra weight, he didn't think its loss too devastating.

Richard jogged back towards what he hoped was the city's center. As he traveled down the street, the heavy bar bounced against his back. It might have been the discomfort of the bar that made a connection. He rushed over to the first fire hydrant he found. He removed one cap and tried slipping the opening over the top bolt. No matter how he tried, it didn't fit. He abandoned his efforts with the black fire plug.

Such an obvious connection and he missed it. After repacking the bar, he returned to the street. Three blocks further down the same street, he found what he sought, a blue fire plug. Richard unscrewed one cap on the hydrant and the one on his canteen. The opening in the flat side of the metal bar fit the odd shaped bolt. Even the ridges matched some hidden indentation. He recited the old handyman's verse, "Left is loose and right is tight." He expected a struggle, but the bolt turned with little effort.

A small pipe extended from the opening. He held the open canteen and turned the handle. Water flowed. Richard acted fast, catching every drop of the water in his canteen before he sealed it. It seemed a waste allowing the water to continue flowing. He put his head under the spout and rubbed the grime off his face. A soft click preceded the water flow's termination. He tried unscrewing a different cap, but nothing happened.

Either the hydrant had a one-time use, or a timer kept one from using it whenever they wanted. Richard unsealed his canteen, added the treatment chemicals, and after replacing the cap, attached it to his belt. His instructors said it took at least an hour for the chemicals to work. Without a watch, time became a guessing game. He might be thirsty now, but he had the water he needed to survive another day or two.

Time to hunt. He kept close to the shadowy side of the street as he followed the line of buildings. There must be somebody out here, another tribute he could take. Richard almost chided himself for accepting the role of hunter-killer in this game. Yet, he saw it as something like a sports event. He had an assigned job and he would do it the best he could. Liking or disliking didn't matter.

They announced their presence long before he found them. Based on their conversations, a group of tributes formed an alliance with the intent of removing the competition. Another unfortunate tribute played the role of hunted prey. Richard didn't care if they succeeded or not. He had an idea where they were and what direction they traveled. He had a weapon and intended shifting the odds in his favor.

Richard raced down a parallel street for five blocks before he cut to their street. Good fortune smiled on him as nobody stood in the street. He rushed into the nearest alley and found a place to hide.

Now for the hard part, waiting. Richard searched the street from his hiding spot, looking for the approaching gang of tributes. His biggest fear, they caught their intended prey. If they did, the hunters might change directions.

His luck held. Somebody raced down the street like a sprinter at a track meet. Richard dismissed that analogy. It reminded him more of an old time nature show about lions chasing an exhausted zebra. As the tribute got closer, he recognized him.

"Gerald, this way, into the alley." His shouts of encouragement as well as the pack's howls had its desired effect.

"Stay against the far wall and go all the way back."

"You crazy, man? They'll see me right away."

"That's the idea. If you want to live, do as I say. Of course you could take your chances out there."

Richard remained hidden while the other tribute leaned against the far wall catching his breath. He waited for the pack's fastest runner. When the kid reached the alley, he announced that he trapped their target.

How a kid his age could believe he trapped another tribute with twice his mass sounded comical. Even with an improvised club, he posed no real danger. The odds changed when two more tributes blocked the alley. The two teens, one male and one female, reminded him of the seniors he encountered in high school each day. Both carried a length of rusty pipe.

"Talk about good fortune," said the boy. "He's exhausted. So big guy, ready to make it a good fight or are you going to surrender to the inevitable? Either way, three against one will be a quick kill."

"Better look again, numb-nuts," Richard growled. He stepped out into the open, which blocked the hunters' escape route. He took a defensive pose and allowed the metal ball to swing in a slow arc. "Who wants to make the cannon go boom?"

"Three against two and one unarmed? I would say the odds are still in our favor, dip-wad." The youngest of the group took a swing with his improvised wooden club, demonstrating his willingness to join the upcoming fight.

"Not so fast, squirt," said the gang's leader. "We play it smart, eliminate the jerk with the ball and chain, then the unarmed runner."

"Smart is running like the cowards you are. I'm not going anywhere; come and get me."

They took the bait. All three tributes charged him. Richard waited until they halved the distance. He did this so many times in the combat simulator back at the training camp that he reacted without thinking. Sure he lost the early ones. However, once he became proficient with his weapon, the outcome changed.

It happened so fast. Richard lunged forward, using a backhand swing that forced the two older tributes to separate. His return swing remained low as he aimed for the female's knee. Her scream caused the group's leader to hesitate.

Anger replaced reason. The older teen charged like a rampaging bull. It took nothing more than a quick flick of the wrist to send the metal ball towards its target. It struck the older teen in the head and stopped him in mid-stride. A second strike against the prone teen resulted in the boom of a cannon.

The younger kid dropped his piece of wood, turned, and tried to escape. Gerald caught him before he took three steps. A quick twist of the head and the cannon boomed for a second time.

Richard approached the girl who sat on the ground. She moaned while holding her broken leg. For just a moment, he considered letting her live. The girl posed no threat to him. His body reacted without conscience thought; he swung his weapon. The iron ball made a meaty smack when it hit her breastbone. For a third time, a cannon boomed.

"What did you do to piss them off," Richard asked.

"Said I was going it alone, figured a lover's triangle would lead to one of us stabbing the other in the back. They wanted me to help them find whatever supplies the Game Master hid. When I said no, the pint-sized terror suggested we needed to kill somebody if we wanted to contact our sponsors. They liked the idea and I became their target."

"Going to give you two options, Gerard. Yeah, I recognized you from our simulator duel. You can go it alone and I promise not to hunt you until dawn tomorrow. If you want, we can become teammates until we find the cornucopia. No promises after that."

"Show me how you got that weapon and you've got yourself a partner," said Gerard.

They walked out of the alley and to the corner. He pointed out the building he converted into a fortress and then directed Gerald to the place where he discovered the way to communicate with his mentor. Gerald wanted him inside, but he explained the one-time limitation.

"Look for the hex when all is said and done," Richard said.

"Strange way of saying 'see you later,' but I'll keep it in mind."

Once Gerald entered the store, Richard backtracked to the alley. As he expected, the Game Master had the bodies removed after he left the alley. However, he did leave the debris they used as weapons. Not so unexpected. Such improvised weapons littered the ground. He picked up the wooden beam the younger male tribute used and returned to his fortress.

Daylight faded. Gerald announced his presence as he prepared to climb onto the roof. Richard stopped him, warning him about the trap near the fire escape. As he did last night, Gerald edged away from the corner until Richard told him it was safe. His new partner climbed over the short wall. Richard remained by the far wall, sitting on the roof, his weapon lying near his feet.

"Thanks for telling me how to get out; don't think I would have made the connection. That was one crazy ride," said Gerald. "Still, it sure was worth it."

"So you made some good buys? Show me what you got."

"Got a water kit, a large backpack, plus an archery kit. It sounds good, but all I have is one arrow and one extra string. Damn things were too expensive. Came down to water or a second arrow. My mentor did say that if I kill a tribute after leaving there, I can go into the second contact station. Wherever that is."

Richard nodded. "Mine told me the same thing. Let's get ready for a good night's sleep. This roof has two ways onto it, the fire escape and that door. While I'm arming the trap by the fire escape, why don't you secure the other doorway."

He held up the beam of wood. With a casual toss, he flipped it to Gerald. "Jam that under the door's handle. Come tomorrow, we make for the center of this city where I'm guessing the cornucopia is located."

"You're a real trusting sort, considering how easy I beat you in the one-on-one duels."

"That bow isn't strung and I have my weapon near. I'm betting in a race, you'll lose. If you prefer leaving, my offer stands. No hunting until dawn."

Gerald shrugged his shoulders and approached the door. He never saw the pressure plate. One moment he stood there; the next instant reduced him to a bloody blob. The cannon confirmed what Richard already knew. He searched the corpse.

The large backpack contained a blanket with a waterproof outer lining. Too bad the explosive device had shredded both blanket and backpack. The box containing the water kit proved just as disappointing. His trap shattered the chemical vials and perforated the canteen. The one salvageable item, the yellow fire plug wrench. He kept that.

"An explosion might attract attention. Best I give up sleeping on rooftops."

Richard descended the fire escape. The alley resembled the letter T, with the longer end pointed at the street. The two side paths led to dead ends. At least nobody could get behind him. If anyone approached tonight, he should hear them. He wrapped the blanket around him just as the national anthem played. As expected, the latest to die, Gerald, appeared first. The music stopped and he waited for the traffic light.

20 - Red

06 - Yellow

10 - Green

He wondered if any sponsors abandoned him after his act of treachery. It shouldn't in a game where the only rule consisted of one word, survive. Thanks to his forethought, he had eliminated a major threat and avoided the red another twenty-four hours.


	12. DAY THREE - MUTTS

Richard awoke, not sure what disturbed his sleep. He grabbed his weapon and took a defensive stand. Nothing moved within the alley. A check of the street revealed nothing dangerous. He remained standing there for another moment, just to be certain.

 _Nerves, it's nothing but nerves_.

He allowed the metal ball to swing free for several more seconds as he checked the area. Once satisfied, Richard hung his weapon on his belt. He needed to find the cornucopia and the food it held.

The weight of his backpack reminded him of the two colored wrenches. He would find either a blue or yellow fire hydrant and refill his canteen. Richard stepped out of the alley and moved to the center of the street.

That internal warning system clamored for attention. If he found the sponsor's shop, one of the other tributes might have done the same. Armed with a long distance weapon like Gerald, he became an easy target by staying in the street. A constant scan and running from one place of cover to another slowed his progress.

After scouting the area for a while, he took a quick drink of water. Maybe the weight of the half empty canteen brought back memories of his earlier explorations. Richard remembered the empty glass jars sitting on a rickety shelf. When he reached the next corner, he retraced his course back to the hardware store.

The building remained undisturbed from yesterday. The door he kicked in laid partway in the entrance, a rusty hinge still attached. Though he expected nobody inside the place, he maintained his vigilance as he crossed the threshold. Richard moved through the store and into the back room.

A dozen empty glass bottles sat on the lowest shelf. The can of motor oil and the small bottle of petrol sat on a different counter. He ignored those as he placed the empty jars in his backpack.

As he held the last one, a crazy thought came to him. Richard retrieved the can of oil and petrol. He then went back to the main part of the store. One manikin wore the tattered remains of an outfit long past identification. When he touched the rags, it fell off the display dummy. He stuffed the items into his backpack and stepped outside.

The sound had him jump. It wasn't the cannon. After the training simulators he knew that one. This sound had a heavier feel to it. He could also determine its direction, which he couldn't do whenever the cannon boomed. Richard turned towards his former sleeping place. Flames leaped up in a line that stretched to the horizon. If he had wanted to return to the building he used as a fortress, he couldn't.

Richard didn't intend staying there, so its destruction didn't bother him. He turned his back on the rubble and walked. At least the area wide destruction gave him hope. He now had a direction to travel. The people running this event would want the tributes moving towards the center. Less room means more chances of battle.

Then he saw it, a fire plug painted a brilliant yellow. It took a moment to unscrew the one cap. His confidence soared when the odd shaped top bolt matched the opening in the yellow handle. Richard gave a hard yank and the nozzle extended.

He checked the street; no sense being surprised by another tribute. He unscrewed the canteen and the jars. One last check and he turned the handle. Water flowed out and he filled everything before it stopped. The familiar click announced there would be nothing more coming from this plug.

A moment later and he had the canteen's water treated. He considered adding the chemicals to the water filled jars, but wasn't sure how much to use. Richard decided he would transfer the water to his canteen before he treated it. The instructions said he had enough for twenty refills, guessing the proper amount to use for the jars could be a fatal mistake.

His stomach growled and Richard froze in place. It sounded so loud; somebody must have heard it. Nothing moved within the area. Richard laughed at the absurdity of anyone detecting the noise his empty belly generated. He continued down the street, hoping one of the deserted building held something useful.

The boom of the cannon surrounded him. Just as the first volley ended, it fired a second time. Richard grabbed his weapon, allowing the metal ball to swing. There must be another gang of tributes hunting in the area. Even with a weapon, he couldn't hope to prevail over any large gang.

Metal scraped across concrete. Up ahead, and in the middle of the street, movement. The manhole cover shifted to one side, halted for a time, and shifted again. This same pattern repeated itself a second time. It couldn't be one of the sponsor travel tubes. The manhole cover automatically opened on those.

Two hands appeared. The tribute must be in a hurry, trying to get clear of the manhole. Based on nothing more than the length of the tribute's hair, he guessed it was one of the older females. His luck held. She had her back to him, presenting him with a perfect target. Richard didn't hesitate. He raced down the street while he unlimbered his weapon. He aimed for the back of her head and swung as hard as he could. With his momentum, the blow drove the tribute a dozen feet beyond the opening in the street.

The cannon confirmed her death. Richard yanked the backpack off the dead girl as well as the canteen attached to her belt. He opened the satchel, hoping for something useful. He couldn't believe his good fortune. In addition to another set of water treatment chemicals, he discovered two protein bars. The chemicals he transferred to his backpack but he wolfed down the first meal he had since the game's opening horn.

That sixth-sense kicked into high gear. Somewhere out there, danger lurked. Richard turned in place, searching the rooftops. No movement. He checked the windows. He detected nobody within the buildings. He scanned the street. Everything remained quiet. He almost dismissed the inner alarm until his eyes focused on movement near the open manhole.

 _By all that's holy, what is that thing_?

It climbed out of the darkness. When Richard helped trap rats in the school's basement, they measured under a foot in length, and that included their naked tail. This thing had the same coloration and the same reddish eyes of a rat, but that's where the similarities ended. This thing stood at least a foot tall at the shoulder and had to be twice as long.

Some mad scientist manipulated its genetic structure. Instead of four legs, this abomination had six. A second look and he corrected his first impression. The front two legs resembled long spears. The mutant rat waved these front appendages like a master swordfighter preparing for a duel. It issued a noise that reminded him of a growling dog.

 _Why isn't that thing attacking me_? Richard got his answer when another one of the rat mutts exited the manhole. It flanked the first rat. He backpedaled away from the two creatures. Correction, now six of the things stood shoulder to shoulder facing him. Another two came out of the hole.

At least now he knew what caused the cannon to fire. Three tributes traveled underground, hoping to avoid others while making their way towards the center of the abandoned city. These mutts must travel in the former sewers and they caught two who were not as vigilant as the third one. When he eliminated the third tribute, it denied these mutant rats another victim.

Something told Richard these things wanted him as a replacement for the one they missed. He continued backing up, trying to put as much distance between him and them as possible. One of the things raised its head and sounded a loud bark. They charged him while holding their front spear-like legs forward. For some reason, it reminded him of medieval knights at a jousting match.

Amazing how fast they moved. Richard dodged them by duplicating some of the dance steps the girl next door used. The difference? She studied ballet and exhibited grace and beauty. His effort lacked those qualities, but he did manage to evade their first mad rush.

Once more the rat mutts formed their line. When the one rat barked, Richard was ready. His weapon swept out in a wide arc, catching one of the creatures in the side and knocking the rest off their intended course. Back home, rats preferred retreating when confronted if given the opportunity.

These abominations didn't withdraw. They pressed their attack, becoming bolder as their numbers increased. Good thing these rats had just one strategy. Whenever he dodged them, they ran off a short distance, reformed their line, and repeated their attack. After dodging their first three charges, he tried defending himself. Instead of running away, the rats pivoted and tried circling him. One rat got by his weapon and lanced him with a foreleg spear.

Richard tried ignoring the pain, but these rat things never tired. The scent of blood from the puncture wound drove them into a frenzy. He lost count of how many times they charged and how many got past the metal ball. Their persistence made him desperate. When they made their next attack, he didn't fight or dodge. He jumped over them, which confused the creatures long enough that he could flee.

He made for the alley, running as fast as his injured legs allowed. The rat things followed him. He wedged himself into a corner and dropped to his knees. Like the prior times, the rat mutts formed a line and charged. With his back protected, Richard concentrated on putting as much power behind his swing as possible. The metal ball slammed into one and knocked the others off their intended course. Unable to circle him, they retreated to where they formed their last line and charged again.

His strategy worked. After another four attempts, they hesitated. His weapon either killed or disabled one or two with every charge. Twice more they rushed him and he defended himself. The creatures stood in line, growling like maddened dogs. One rat gave a double bark and they retreated. Richard followed to the end of the alley, reluctant to expose his back if they decided on charging him again.

One by one the things jumped into the manhole. Richard returned to the scene of the battle and dispatched the injured creatures. He verified that all were dead before he left the relative safety of the alley.

They did not return. He worked the metal disk back into place, sealing the rat mutts underground. He hoped they didn't have the intelligence to return via a different opening. Given enough time and sufficient numbers, they could overwhelm any tribute.

As expected, while he fought the rats in the alley, somebody removed the dead tribute's body. Anything he hoped to salvage from her body or backpack disappeared when they collected those discarded items. It didn't matter. He had a second canteen, another water treatment kit, and he already ate the two protein bars.

Richard limped down the street until he reached a rusted truck. He lifted himself over the side and stretched out in the pick-up truck's flat bed. The bottom portion of his pants legs were stained red and his leg hurt each time he took a step. He worked the fabric up to his knees and examined the many stab wounds he suffered.

Good fortune smiled on him. None of the injuries punctured a vein or artery, though he lost enough blood to turn his white socks red. He removed his socks so he could examine his legs. His fingers kneaded the area around the marks, which confirmed no bones broken. He worried that the bloody socks might attract other monsters lurking within the arena, but was reluctant to discard them..

He filled his second canteen, added the necessary chemicals, and attached it to his belt. He poured one jar over each foot as he massaged his leg. After a second rinse, the puncture wounds no longer bled. With his last jar of water he washed his bloody socks. The wet socks went into his backpack under the empty jars. Wherever he made camp, he would lay out his socks for drying overnight.

Something strange happened while he tended to his injuries. When Richard looked back, the bodies of the genetically altered rats remained. The Game Master should have removed them as well. Perhaps these things were intended as food for anyone who defeated them. That thought made his stomach rebel. Back in survival training, his instructor handed him a dead lizard and told him to eat it. He couldn't and his instructor said he would when he got hungry enough. One look at the dead rats convinced him he wasn't that desperate yet.

He climbed out of the rusted vehicle and hobbled down the street. The injuries did not reopen. His shoes chaffed his bare feet so he removed them, which presented him with a dilemma. He couldn't carry his shoes as he might need to defend himself from some tribute or another horror creation of the Game Master.

The uneven pavement hurt his bare feet. Without his shoes, the stores remained off limits due to all the debris and broken glass. He retrieved his wet socks from the bottom of his backpack. Once he had his boots on, he could walk at a very slow pace. He disliked the feeling of soggy socks but pushed onward.

Time passed. As much as he hated the idea, he couldn't continue without resting his injured legs. He needed to find a secured place for the night. He turned into the next alley and searched for a piece of wood. Once he tied the rope to the discarded wooden beam, he threw it through one rung on the fire escape. The improvised grappling hook worked and he scaled the metal structure.

Richard remembered his survival instructor's lesson. People had a tendency to disregard anything above them. This is why he emphasized climbing trees at night or whenever he wanted to evade another tribute. No trees here, but a fire escape would make a great substitute.

Unlike the building he used as a fortress, this one was at least twice as high. He got to the sixth floor and the structure groaned. He retreated back to the third floor landing and the sound stopped. No use risking a collapse. Even if he survived such a fall, he might not escape serious injuries. Richard considered the idea of going inside, but after what happened that first day, decided against it.

He stuffed his backpack in a corner that remained out of reach of anyone below him. Richard removed the laces from one boot and secured his wet socks to the metal grating, confident the Game Master wouldn't take them during the night. He wrapped himself in the blanket and rested on his improvised pillow. A glance down below revealed nothing but dark shadows as the night deepened.

Voices drifted up to him.

"Help me get this trash onto the dumpster's lid, Lisa."

"You have got to be out of your mind. Why should we do that, Toby? I want to be able to get out fast if somebody finds us."

"We haven't seen another tribute all day. Besides, if anyone sees this thing covered in trash, he'll not check inside and he'll not move it to that fire escape. It's a perfect place to hide for the night, or did you want to fight those rats again? You know they'll be back out tonight."

"No thanks, once was enough. Good thing they couldn't jump too high, they had us trapped on that other dumpster."

"I wonder what made them leave?"

"I don't care, just glad they left. Hey look, it's about to begin."

Richard checked the sky. Instead of the full moon and the stars, the sky consisted of an energy grid. The lines faded, but the sky didn't return. The music came from all directions, the vamp to the National Anthem. As the song played, the portraits of the dead tributes appeared. When the song ended, he did a slow count to thirty. His timing was off as the traffic signal flashed onto the grid when his count reached thirty-two.

24 - Red

11 - Yellow

01 - Green

Vicky once told them the arena shrunk during the game. It started out at twenty-five miles in diameter. As the games progressed and the number of tributes declined, they reduced the arena. Yesterday's fire eliminated anything beyond their initial starting point. The mutants forced those in hiding out into the open. Based on nothing more than the intensity of the force field overhead, he had a feeling the city's diameter had shrunk again.

The Game Master didn't want his mutants to kill too many tributes. There's no entertainment value when somebody died in the dark. A tribute killed by a monster was fine, but tributes eliminated that way affected the game's appeal to those wagering on a specific tribute.

So what was the Game Master doing? Richard knew. The Game Master was herding the tributes towards the cornucopia and the last battle. As long as everyone continued in the right direction, the mutts would remain nothing more than a threat.


	13. DAY FOUR - VITAL CLUE

If anyone, or anything, stirred during the night, Richard never heard it. A glance up at the sky said it all, another sunny day. The night might have a bite to it, but even the flimsy blanket he used kept him warm.

Richard untied his shoes from the iron grate. His day started on a good note, his socks dried during the night. Before he slipped them on, he checked his legs. The puncture wounds from those mutts remained swollen, but did not hurt when he kneaded the surrounding skin. Either his idea of washing them out prevented infection or those rat-things carried no disease.

He wondered if the two tributes hiding in the dumpster still slept. He dismissed them as a non-threat since they missed their best chance at eliminating him during the night. They might have been successful if they caught him unaware. With him alert, the sun shining, and him armed, neither of them offered any real challenge. Best he let them sleep inside the dumpster.

As Richard repacked his gear, his fingers brushed over the glass jar containing the oil and petrol mixture. He intended using this when he reached the cornucopia as a diversion. By the time he found the location, he anticipated a grand finale battle. In such a bloodbath melee, any distraction might give him an advantage.

"Better something certain than wishful thinking," he muttered.

Richard descended the fire escape until he reached the broken ladder. He used the piece of wood as he did last night, but looped the rope so that he could retrieve it once he reached the ground. He leaned over the side and slid down the rope. A snap of the wrist allowed enough slack that he could reach the wooden beam.

The sleeping tributes remained unaware of his presence. Richard approached the dumpster and placed the piece of wood on top. No movement from within, all went as he hoped. He slid it under the handles. It wasn't a tight fit, but with the debris these two tributes packed on one lid, they couldn't escape unless they had the strength to snap the board.

A pile of debris blocked one side at the end of the alley. It included the wooden frame of a sofa or large chair now warped by the elements. He walked over to the broken item and with some grunting, lifted it to his shoulders. This would be the risky part. If they heard him moving about, they might escape or counterattack.

Neither tribute heard him approach. Their first hint of danger came when Richard heaved the heavy frame onto the dumpster. Then they reacted. First they tried lifting the cover without the piece of furniture. It didn't budge. At that point, both tributes pleaded for their release. They tried bargaining with whomever trapped them in the dumpster.

Richard remained silent. He watched them struggle with the lids and plead for their release. Once certain they couldn't escape, he sat with his back against the far wall. He punched a hole in the lid with his knife and strung the dry-rotted cloth through it. When he turned the jar upside down, the cloth turned damp.

He jumped onto the dumpster, which renewed the trapped tributes pleads. Richard strung the rope through the one handle and gave a tug. It moved a little, but not enough to let the two hiding tributes escape. He kicked the wooded beam clear of the handle. Richard looped the rope around the lid handle on the unobstructed side.

Richard moved to the cluttered side. If the tributes bolted now, he lost his opportunity. He opened the handle of the survival knife and slid one match free. It flared to life with his first try. When he applied it to the cloth, it caught fire. Holding the flaming jar in his left hand, he pulled the rope upward. The lid popped open and two frightened tributes stared at him. Richard threw the jar into the dumpster before either tribute reacted. The dumpster's lid fell back into place and he jumped onto it.

Flames flared around the edges of the dumpster's lids. The two tributes trapped inside attempted to dislodge him without success. Richard slipped the wooden beam back through the handles, sealing them within the dumpster. He jumped off and exited the alley. In less than a hundred yards, either they stopped screaming or he no longer heard them. Since the cannon never fired, they still lived.

He felt certain neither could survive for long with their injuries. Unless they had water on them, dehydration would kill them. For a moment, he considered giving them a quick death. Richard dismissed that idea since such a mercy exposed him to possible injury. He knew the most desperate always fought hardest. He learned that lesson during his many simulation duels.

It took him an hour to find a blue fire hydrant. The handle worked without any problem. A twist of the handle and he had both canteens and the half dozen jars filled with water. He had to wait an hour for the chemicals to work, but he didn't intend draining his canteens before the sun reached its zenith.

Despite knowing the general direction, Richard kept running into obstacles. A collapsed building on one street and a high wall on another forced him to backtrack. One time, he decided to force his way through a building by smashing out the window. Entering the building proved easy, but the floor groaned with each step. Caution eventually prevailed and he retraced his steps.

As many times as he thought about it, he couldn't convince himself. He knew a person could go more than a week without eating, but that didn't make it any easier. The empty spot in his belly rebelled each time his mind wandered to the topic. Richard couldn't deny it any longer, he needed food. Even one of those rat mutts turned into a viable option.

Another crossroad appeared ahead. At the corner he turned to his right. This was the proper direction; he just hadn't figured out how to avoid all these dead end streets. The Game Master said the cornucopia was hidden, not removed. Richard guessed the where had to be near the arena's center. Somehow he missed the vital clue that would lead him there.

With fewer tributes, the odds of meeting anyone decreased. If he did run into another tribute, he expected a one on one fight. That favored him. His confidence remained high. Twelve tributes lived, including him. Nothing else mattered. Correction, one thing superseded the number of opponents. He needed food.

Every building in this city had the same basic design, a square box sharing a common wall with the place next to it. Each alley resembled the letter T with both ends blocked. This abandoned city's uniformity bored him. Another dead end street forced him to backtrack and choose another direction.

 _Left or right? Does it really matter_?

He followed the street with the least debris. As he walked, Richard kept an eye out for the next cross street going in his desired direction. His mind wandered as he followed the street. For some reason, it fixated on the mazes he built to race rats back home. The city's streets resembled a labyrinth and he was one of the rats, not a pleasant analogy.

Something up ahead brought him back to the reality of the game. He found a building with a steeple. It seemed such a contradiction for a city consisting of rectangular structures. At first, Richard wondered how a church could survive whatever destruction this city suffered. As he drew nearer, he realized his mistake. The sign above the huge doors proclaimed the place as Firehouse Fourty-One. Memories of a school field trip when he was in first grade came to mind. He jogged to the building and slipped into the huge garage.

The trucks lacked any of their former luster. Nobody had polished them in years. The flat tires attested to that fact. His heart beat faster when he discovered a rack of fire axes. Richard thought he found another weapon until he grabbed one. The wood proved so rotten that when he touched one, they all collapsed into a pile of splinters. The rusty metal axe heads shattered when they hit the concrete floor. _So much for another weapon_.

The nearest door read "- IRE BAT- LION -I- F"

No problem figuring it out, fire battalion chief. The locked door didn't stop Richard. One swing of his weapon's metal ball and the smoked glass door panel shattered. He tried unlocking the door, but the corroded handle snapped off in his hand. Two more swings of his weapon allowed him access to the commander's office.

A map of the city hung on the wall. A silver pin identified the location of the firehouse. What captured Richard's attention were the other pins. Red, blue, green, white, yellow, and black pins highlighted several streets. When he traced the roads with the colored pins, it led from six traffic circles along the city's outer boundary to the middle of the city.

He studied the map for several moments, repeating the pattern in his mind. Once certain he wouldn't forget it, he destroyed the map. This was too valuable a clue. Richard bolted from the derelict building as he retraced his path. At the second crossroad, he turned right and jogged down two blocks. Another right should place him on the correct street. Perhaps a hundred paces and behind an abandoned car he found a fire plug painted a bright red. He continued down the road, his confidence growing when he passed a green hydrant.

Richard didn't know the order of the colored hydrants, but he did remember all six appeared before he needed to turn off this street. When he found the yellow one, he delayed his trip long enough to refill his canteens and the glass jars. Unless he ran into trouble, such as another tribute or some genetic abomination, he could be within sight of the cornucopia by nightfall tomorrow. Earlier if he rushed.

Once he passed the last fireplug painted in one of the six colors shown on the firehouse map, he turned left. His pace increased now that he knew how to reach his goal. The volley from the cannon announced the death of three tributes. He anticipated two, not three. The truth hit him hard, the game still had enough contestants vying for the ultimate prize, survival. His rush to the cornucopia blinded him to the dangers lurking within this city.

A fourth blast disturbed the quiet. Richard decided knowing the way didn't mean he needed to treat this game like a race. If he delayed his arrival, it might provide him an advantage. Tributes reaching the cornucopia must fight. Such battles for control would either eliminate or injure those who arrived first.

Time he got back to investigating these stores. One never knew what might be hidden within a dilapidated shop. He found the place where he could contact his mentor. He discovered the glass jars and the items he needed to eliminate two tributes. His searching led him to the firehouse and the map. Best he not overlook any possible advantage.

Shadows grew longer as the sun sank to the horizon. Richard would soon have to abandon his hunting for a secured hiding place, but not until he searched the one store that demanded his attention. The awning fabric appeared new, its coloration the brightest thing he saw since entering the arena. Each band of fabric displayed a different color. The outer band was a bleached white, the next an emerald green, followed by yellow, blue, black, and red. The same pattern repeated six times across the buildings facade.

If the firehouse map highlighted these six colors, there must be a reason. He entered the store, wary of any possible trap. Glass and dirt littered the floor. Shelves held a collection of broken cans and bottles of various shapes and sizes. The storage room door collapsed when he kicked it. The place contained nothing but rubble. He made his way behind the counter, entering a door marked employees only.

Other than a six-sided cracked mirror, a broken exit sign, and an old style mail chute, the room held nothing of value. He felt so certain this place contained something of value. He hesitated.

 _Six sided? That number has been running throughout this game. A hexagon launch platform, six rope ladders, the six painted fire hydrants, could that be a clue of some sort?_

Richard approached the mirror and tried moving it without success. In frustration, he smashed it with his weapon. As the glass fell, he found a ring mounted in a wall recess. He gave it a yank.

Somewhere nearby, a motor roared to life. Richard jumped back, his weapon held at the ready. Part of the wall slid forward, revealing six odd shaped bolts. He pulled out the blue wrench, wary of using the one he stole. After four attempts, he found the one it fitted and pulled the handle towards him. Something slid out of the wall.

It didn't make sense. Why would the Game Master provide a miniature television? Its screen flashed a bright white before it returned to an all black appearance. A light flickered, but no picture appeared. Curiosity had Richard draw closer. He stared at the screen, reading the text.

"Greetings Richard, your sponsors want to know what you need."

Great, his sponsors wanted to offer him help, his problem was how to tell them. He tried talking to the screen, but nothing happened. He knew the room must be wired for sound, as were the tributes themselves. No microphone appeared, nor did he find a telephone headset. Some rule prevented communication unless done in a prescribed manner.

A glance at the table offered him an option. The alphabet letters appeared on a flat surface. His mother talked about typewriters at her office, but he never saw one. The schools required everything be written by hand. They didn't teach students how to use a keypad until their final year.

"Q - W - E - R - T - Y. What the hell does qwerty spell or mean," Richard asked the empty room.

It took him a few moments finding the right letters, but when he pressed the first one, a flashing square turned into that letter before it moved a short distance to the right. He continued pressing the letters until he spelled the word food. When nothing happened, he hit the enter key. The monitor flashed like a camera's light. The blinking white square moved across the screen.

"Your request is being considered. Please wait."

"Request submitted to sponsors. Reply pending."

"Approval granted. System resetting."

"Well, when do I get it?"

Richard stared at the black screen. The same motor he heard the first time started to hum. The odd television, as well as the scrambled alphabet receded into the wall. A desperate lunge retrieved the water key before the panel merged with the rest of the wall.

The noise startled him. A box dropped out of the mail chute. Richard grabbed it and pushed through the door. It locked behind him, leaving him in an alley. As he reached the corner, the cannon boomed. He ignored it as he jogged down the darkening street. Best he find a place for the night.

Instead of climbing up a fire escape, he went towards the blind end of the alley. There he found a stairway leading down to a basement door. That door didn't open, but the overhanging awning protected the stairwell not only from the elements, but from any prying eyes. Richard considered it an ideal hiding place for this night.

"Never fall into a predictable pattern. Twice on a roof, once on the ground, and once on a fire escape," Richard said in a low voice. "This time, below ground level."

Anyone watching would know his thoughts. As his mentor said, make your sponsors aware of your plans and they just might find a way of helping you. He didn't know if he would need to contact his sponsors again, but it couldn't do him any harm revealing his strategy.

After arranging his gear, Richard climbed back up to ground level. He stepped away from the wall and kept looking to the sky. First came the energy grid, than the music, and finally, the portraits of the tributes. The first portrait, and the latest to die, he recognized. It was the girl who hid in the dumpster. It must have taken her a long time to die since he used his firebomb just past dawn and the last cannon boomed after sundown when he exited the store.

Another girl's face replaced the youngster's portrait. Richard couldn't believe it. Rebecca's face flashed across the sky. Of all the tributes in this year's game, he anticipated a final duel between him and her. She had the same drive and killer instinct he saw in himself. The shock of seeing Rebecca's picture had him miss the other deaths. He awaited the traffic light.

30 - Red

03 - Yellow

03 - Green

As he returned to his hiding place, Richard wondered how many tributes reached the cornucopia today. Would all survive the night? Had they banded together or did they intend fighting each other when the sun rose? Was the Game Master manipulating them so they all reached the cornucopia at the same time? Too many questions and no answers. For the moment, a good night's sleep held a higher priority.


	14. DAY FIVE - CHOICES TO MAKE

Richard gave a slow stretch. It fascinated him that he had no troubles sleeping. He thought having somebody hunting him would discourage sleep, but reality didn't agree with that perception. One had to rest, regardless of the dangers.

The boom of the cannon brought him out of his lethargic state. If a tribute died, somebody must have done it. They might be close. Richard grabbed his weapon and climbed the stairs. Once at ground level, he checked the area near the stairwell. Nothing moved. A check of the alley revealed no other person hid there. He took the time to verify that nobody was in the street. All remained undisturbed.

When he considered the shrinking size of the arena and the number of remaining tributes, the fatal battle may have happened a short distance from him. Since he never found the combatants, he relaxed. Richard decided to use the time to examine the box he acquired last night. He bounced it in his hands as if it were some birthday gift that required a guess before opening it.

 _No sense playing such a silly game_. He sliced through the tape holding the box shut. When he got the lid off, he found nine energy bars, a virtual feast. He almost discarded the lid, but a slip of paper dropped to the ground. He grabbed the note and moved to a sunnier spot.

Some gut feeling told him what the letter would say. As expected, Vicky informed him that there would be no further assistance from his sponsors. Her final instruction about being careful made him laugh. He knew the consequences.

Richard packed all but two of the protein bars. He munched on one and placed the other in his pocket while he repacked his gear. The two colored wrenches he discarded. If he reached the cornucopia today, it would offer him sufficient food and water.

This game couldn't last too much longer. Today's cannon reduced the number of tributes to five. The Game Master wouldn't allow the game to continue since those watching the game demanded excitement. The realization that the viewers considered one tribute killing another entertainment erased whatever pleasure he experienced with the food gift.

If he knew this, so did the other tributes. Richard considered rushing into that climatic bloodbath. A final blaze of glory on a bloody field. In such a battle, the odds favored him. He had a sobering thought. Victory went to the lucky as often as it did to the strong.

Suppose one tribute knew he remained alive? That one might propose they team up to eliminate their greatest threat, him. Against one opponent he felt confident. Two he could handle, but not without suffering an injury. Three or four required the element of surprise, something not possible against an organized hunting party.

Until now, he always assumed these games a matter of brute strength. Richard never considered the mental aspect. In the beginning, the strongest or the most aggressive players gained the advantage. As time passed, those with the best survival strategy prevailed. When the Game Master eliminated that initial bloodbath, it shifted the odds away from the physical.

Time he get back to the reality of this game and take stock of his surroundings. He still had to find the cornucopia. He also had four other tributes who posed a threat to his continued survival. He shouldered his backpack and made for the main street.

It sounded like thunder, but the sky displayed a brilliant blue that contradicted such an assumption. A look in the opposite direction revealed the source of the noise. Even as he stood there, another building collapsed. The arena continued to shrink.

By the time the sun had passed its zenith, his destination appeared. Not the cornucopia, that would be too providential. Since he first climbed out of that cavern, his world consisted of endless buildings. Some empty, some useful, and some too dangerous to risk entering. The stark change in scenery signaled a new chapter to this game.

Up ahead, a vast patch of greenery. He almost jogged the final hundred yards to the place. The idea of a field of grass instead of cracked pavement refreshed his soul. It seemed like he had struggled these last few days trying to escape the harshness of the lifeless city for the vitality this place offered.

Like many of the signs he passed earlier, this one appeared weatherworn. However, looks proved deceptive. The "You are here" gold star had a brilliant contrast to the faded green that dominated the placard. His fingers traced several trails to three major attractions in what the sign called The Central Forest Preserve. The nearest one, The Golden Arena. This was the Fiftieth Capital Hunger Game. Could this be the clue to the cornucopia?

A quick drink and he refilled one canteen. As he transferred the water from the jars to his canteen, he discarded them. He didn't need them any more and it felt so good eliminating the extra weight. By his estimation, Richard had sufficient water for three days. Some inner sense said the games would end before that much time passed.

When the game started, the tributes surrounded this park. The map he found at the firehouse confirmed it. A direct approach from any of the traffic circles would have them reach a different point along the park's perimeter. That placed the other tributes closer to one highlighted spot and further from the others.

Would the Game Master favor one group over another? Did he miss the vital clue that must lead him to the cornucopia? He reconsidered his choices. It seemed too obvious locating it at Center Point. He decided to check that location later. For now, he felt committed to the Arena.

The building dominated the area, though its exterior showed signs of extensive deterioration. Richard approached the place, wary of any possible trap. Nothing moved outside the building. The closer he came, the more writing he discovered along the facade. Much of it had deteriorated beyond deciphering, but the path he followed took him to a door with a large letter C.

He circled the arena a second time, counting the number of entrances. He found six, each identified by a different letter. When he returned to the letter C, Richard hesitated. Based on nothing more than the words of the Game Master saying the cornucopia was hidden, he decided it must be within this place.

Richard grabbed the door's handle and pulled. It opened without any resistance. A quick glance at the door showed no signs of rust, which reinforced his belief. Somebody wanted him here. He moved inside, his eyes scanning the open area for any possible trap or ambush.

The ticket windows lined the wall, each of them covered in a thick layer of dust. The opening where customers would receive their tickets were blocked with spider webs. Trash littered the floor. Richard kicked a few items, checking for some hint what event the Golden Arena hosted last without success.

His hand caressed the turnstile, reminding him of sporting events he attended with his parents. Even the cultural ones, such as the concert, he enjoyed. For just a moment, he considered going through the turnstile, just like he did with his parents before their divorce. The memory of an open window and the three tributes killed by a hidden trap stopped him.

Instead of entering the place through the proper entrance, he followed the exit ramp up towards the next level. Funny as it sounded, he expected some uniformed guard to rush down and challenge him. The thought of him needing a ticket had him laugh. It must be the tension; he saw no humor in a fight to the death when it might be his.

With the exception of empty concession stands, this level matched the main floor. Trash similar to what he found down below littered the floors here too. He tried circling the building but debris blocked the way a few paces past the ramp marked Gate C9. Richard tried the other direction. The roof collapsed a dozen paces beyond Gate C1. For a moment, he considered the idea of returning to the open field and reentering the place through one of the other doors. It didn't seem worth the effort.

His second walk along the concession floor revealed nothing worthwhile. He entered the men's room and tried each urinal, toilet, and sink. As expected, none of these items worked. He then examined the lady's room and found them as dysfunctional as the men's facilities. Even the toilet paper had rotted beyond usefulness.

When his explorations took him back to Gate C1, he turned up the ramp. A bad move on his part since part of the roof had fallen in and blocked it. He retreated to the concession stand floor and moved on to the next gate. All blocked, with the exception of Gate C6.

Halfway up the ramp, he found six red frames. The three on his right showed a different woman. Each picture had a vertical slash through it, distorting the image. Curiosity had him take a second look. Richard pressed the torn edges together. The pictures depicted the female tributes he saw in the cavern.

On the left, somebody vandalized two of the pictures in a manner similar to the girls. He pressed the edges together. The first male he recognized as the boy who died with two of the girls on that first day. They found the open window too strong a lure and suffered the penalty. The tribute pictured in the last ruined picture he didn't recall; he might have been in the cavern or died somewhere else.

One picture remained undamaged. It made him shudder since it had his face. Richard withdrew his knife and slashed through the picture. Anyone who came through this place might make the wrong assumption that he died. Such a mistake might give him the slight advantage he needed.

He continued up the ramp to the arena's seating area. One look confirmed what he assumed when he found the other ramps blocked. The roof had caved in, crushing most of the arena. Richard stood still, letting his eyes adjust to the evening darkness. If the other tributes hid here, he didn't want them to surprise him.

A blue sky illuminated the building's exposed interior. One thing survived the roof's collapse, the scoreboard. Four pillars held it up above an elevated boxing ring. Richard approached with caution. He hesitated at each row, checking for anyone hiding there. He stopped halfway down the rows.

"Last thing I need is for one or more of those pillars to collapse. I keep forgetting the arena can be as deadly as another tribute," Richard said.

If he ever got out of here, he might find such vocal outburst comical. Right now, it brought his sanity into question. Vicky's note said there would be no further help until he found the cornucopia. Why should he be informing potential sponsors of his thoughts? It didn't matter. One thing remained undone, the final confrontation. No doubt the Game Master wanted the usual last one standing melee. A bloody battle that decided who won the game and who came so close. That thought sobered him.

It caught him off guard when the sign activated. Loud speakers blared the vamp to the Panem national anthem. As the song played, the sign flashed the portraits of the other tributes. A message crawled across the screen below the pictures in a never-ending loop. It was the same one displayed each night, "Give honor to those who have fallen." When the last face faded, the music stopped.

His count reached sixty and still the traffic signal had not appeared. A look upward revealed a red and orange sky. This wasn't the official announcement. That sixth sense warning him of danger clamored for attention. For reasons he couldn't articulate, something felt wrong. He looked at the scoreboard and his portrait.

"The next to die."

Richard retraced his steps, his weapon held at the ready. He reached the tunnel at the upper end of the arena without encountering anything. A few paces down the path, his eyes drifted to the framed portraits. His picture appeared in pristine condition. He knew he slashed it, so who reset it, and why?

Danger lurked near; he knew it. He doubled his pace down the exit ramp towards the doors. When he hit the first exit, the door refused to move. His weapon lashed out and hit the glass pane. It bounced off, leaving the door intact. He approached the next door and tried opening it. His effort failed, not one door opened and none of the glass panels broke.

It echoed down to him, a familiar sound. Richard turned to face the approaching menace. One of the rat mutts barked a second time and a number of the bionic abominations raced in his direction. He unlimbered his weapon, lashing out at the nearest one. His efforts at dodging the others proved unsuccessful. Instead of retreating, these creatures pressed their attack.

His efforts kept them from surrounding him, though he had to keep dodging their continual assaults while flaying out at the nearest threat. Nothing short of a death blow stopped the monstrosities. At least the injured ones didn't move as fast, which gave him time to concentrate on the closest threat.

This couldn't last too long. His agility kept them in front, but any slip would have those things atop him. A prone position assured his death. He tried retreating to the debris that blocked one side. It proved an unwise move when one of the rats scurried up the rubble and jumped at him. The morning star's metal ball sent the thing flying into the wall near the ticket booths.

The attacks stopped. He took a few deep breaths as he did a quick inspection. At least this time none of them managed to stab his leg. Richard counted the bodies, assuring himself that none of them moved. He basked in his success.

When the last mutt splattered against the wall, it missed the message board mounted above the ticket booths. Electricity crackled and the black band flashed at a rapid rate. The board returned to its all black look for a few seconds. Letters now marched across the black band spelling out another message.

"Ten died in the first assault. In two minutes, twenty will be released. You have that long to escape."

The message scrolled across the board a second time. The time remaining now read one minute fifty seconds. At least now he knew an exit existed. Richard searched the area. The announcement read twenty seconds. _Where did the time go?_ Ten of those things almost killed him, twenty would overwhelm him.

It appeared pink, but on a second look, he realized age faded the red sign. When he drew closer, he made out the words fire exit. Such a simple solution, every building had one. He pushed the bar, it refused to shift. He lowered his shoulder and rammed the bar. It didn't budge.

"What am I missing? This has got to work."

A series of barks distracted him. Somewhere within the arena the Game Master released his mutant rats. He didn't have much time before they attacked. It didn't seem fair going this long in the game just to be eliminated by some mindless creation of a mad scientist. He refused to allow it.

One final try. Richard faced the door, hoping the lettering might offer him the vital clue. To the right side of the door, a red box labeled fire alarm caught his attention. He gave the handle a pull and leaned against the door's bar handle.

It opened. Richard didn't hesitate; he slid outside and pushed the door closed. One rat mutt tried getting out too but a quick swing of his weapon's metal ball crushed the creature's head. Nothing sounded so sweet as the click of the locking mechanism as he forced the fire door closed.

His back slid down the door's metal exterior until he sat. Laughter erupted like a volcano, the sound disturbing the quiet of the deepening night. Logic told Richard the sound signified nothing more than a release of tension and his celebration upon escaping the Game Master's latest trap. He unwrapped one of the protein bars as he tried to control his emotions.

Music blared out, its sound coming from every direction. Richard gazed towards the heavens as the energy grid faded. As the song played, the faces of those who died appeared. He saw, and yet he didn't. None of them registered on his mind. When the nightly tribute to the fallen ended, he couldn't remember any of them. He no longer cared. Just one thing mattered, his face wasn't one of them. The illogic of that comment had him giggle until the traffic signal appeared.

31 - Red

02 - Yellow

03 - Green

Such madness had to end, perhaps tomorrow.


	15. DAY SIX - SHOWDOWN

Light bathed half of Richard's face and the sun's warmth woke him. The horror of last night came rushing back. He jumped to his feet and checked the door behind him. It remained locked, which caused him to giggle. Had any of those horrors escaped last night, a cannon never heard would herald his departure from this game.

Game? Richard wondered how any sane person could use that term when

describing this living nightmare. When you played any game, you anticipated the inevitable rematch. The challenge, achieving something better. Not here, no redo possible. This game ended with eternal rest for all but one of them.

It caused a storm of conflicting emotions. Such sober thoughts had him wondering about the other tributes. What made them any less deserving of life? Did he do something worthy of the ultimate prize? How does one reconcile their actions after this horror ended? Could any survivor ever repay the butcher's bill for the lives ended before they realized their full potential?

Now he understood Vicky's comments while they ate dinner at the training facility. Every victor hunted for redemption and forgiveness. Some retreated from these harsh questions at the bottom of a bottle or through a needle in a vein. All too many lost their connection to reality. A few forfeited their lives rather than find a way of paying off their obligations.

Richard didn't know if he could maintain his sanity while guiding those unfortunate tributes selected to do what he did. How does somebody explain to a kid they must kill? Regardless of how you justified your actions, it didn't make the act any easier. Death was a concept beyond any child's comprehension. Did he have the fortitude to do this year after year? Could he do it for as many years as Vicky? That thought terrified him.

Faces rushed into his mind. Susanna always had a smile. Rebecca acted tough, but ask her about her boyfriend back home and she turned into a giggling teenager. He trained with them, he lived with them. They shared their personal lives, loves, and ambitions. Richard considered them the sisters he never had.

Gone forever, snuffed out in some bloody sport. What remained? An unflattering picture that flashed across a black sky for several seconds and disappeared until the next night? When this game ended, they too would vanish to all but family and friends. Given time, even those memories must fade. The living had more important things to consider.

They were the ones he knew by name. The others turned into personal memories that would forever haunt him. He remembered how one tribute trusted him and paid the ultimate price. Whenever the world turned quiet, the screams of two terrified children deafened him.

How does one live with those memories? Can one live with that? Did he want to live with an endless replay of this game? The lack of any answer to such questions scared Richard the most. He had no real choice in the matter. Either he survived and found a way, or death would relieve him of his burden.

Such thoughts were not healthy while in the arena. Richard checked his backpack as he rose. One look erased whatever philosophical discussion his mind insisted on playing. Yesterday, he opened a box containing nine protein bars. He remembered eating two, now he had three. He knew he didn't lose them; he just didn't recall eating the rest.

His meandering took him to the building's entrance. An inconsistency made him halt. The Game Master did it again. The bodies of the genetically mutated rats remained. It drew him closer.

Richard's hand reached for the door. His growling stomach classified the dead animals as food and yet he couldn't force himself to open that door. Last time, he escaped the trap. What if that exit failed to work a second time? He couldn't risk another encounter with those things if they hid in ambush.

He needed a destination. Try as he might, his memory failed him. He couldn't recall which path took him where. The only trail he did know led him back to the sign that sent him here. It seemed such a waste of time retracing his steps.

"Better to know your destination than blunder around the park hoping to find what you wanted," he said. "Yeah, like my sponsors really care what's happening here."

Before he left, he circled the building. Richard hoped he missed some signpost directing him to the preserve's other major attractions. It would save time. His search provided fruitless. With no other alternative, he backtracked to his initial starting point. At least he solved the mystery of the missing protein bars. He found the missing wrappers tangled in a bush near the path.

Discarded material always disappeared. Drop something, walk away, and when you went back, the Game Master had removed it. Richard wasn't sure how they distinguished leaving something at a camp and loosing it, but he knew trash shouldn't remain. He did think of one possible reason, to lead one tribute to another.

No reason to alert others of his presence. Richard knew four other players remained. The odds should favor him, but best he not tempt Fate. He retrieved the trash and stuffed it in his backpack. He slipped his hand through the morning star's strap. If somebody did attack, he wanted his weapon unlimbered and at the ready.

His extra caution delayed his arrival. An examination of the surrounding area revealed no sign that another tribute passed here. Confident that the other four must be either at the cornucopia or following different paths, he examined the placard. Richard's finger traced the path he wanted as well as the next if he missed his objective.

The last of his water went into his emptied canteen. He stuffed the protein bar wrappers inside the jar. For just that moment, he relived his last football game. He held the jar like he did the football. He hiked it to himself, took three steps back, cocked his arm, and threw a perfect spiral. The trash filled jar bounced across the grass when it landed, which had him laugh while he cursed out the imaginary receiver. He needed that momentary diversion.

Next stop, Center Point Monument. Something told him the cornucopia couldn't be at such an obvious location. Game Masters loved devising traps that tested both the mental and physical talents of the tributes. The Arena hid his objective. Yesterday, he thought the tie-in to the number fifty hinted it must be the place. Wrong again.

Richard wondered where he missed the vital clue to the location. He worried somebody might have the intelligence to find it first. The tribute who found the cornucopia had their choice of weapons and sufficient supplies to make anyone a power unto themselves. Have an alliance control it and the others had to somehow overwhelm them first. Not an attractive option.

Strange as it seemed, a walk surrounded by greenery revitalized his spirit. The city died long ago. This place lived. Sudden movement at the far end of the field caught his attention. A rabbit hopped along the edge of the field near some trees. Its presence confirmed his impression of a safe place. No animal would move so casually with another presence nearby.

If he had either something for a snare or a long range weapon, he might consider hunting the animal for a taste of fresh meat. That idea lost its appeal. The rabbit was the first normal thing he'd seen since the game first started. The rats were a genetic anomaly, something unknown in nature, and doomed to die whenever the game ended.

The billboard indicated a paved path. Reality didn't live up to that expectation. Richard found enough of the old blacktop to keep him from getting lost, but calling it paved was a joke. It was nothing more than large sections of weed infested gravel. Between these rocky islands, the park had reclaimed what was its land. Grass, trees, and bushes, now grew there.

Distances proved deceptive. Based on nothing more than a general idea, he anticipated reaching the monument by early afternoon. Shadows from the nearest trees crossed half the glade as he rounded a low hill.

Weather destroyed the statue long ago. Richard examined the pile of rocks as he tried to reconstruct the monument. One long stone resembled an animal's leg, another might be a person's head. Even the platform did not escape the ravages of time. Rust removed too many of the letters to decipher it and none could be found nearby. As he expected, the obvious didn't contain his objective.

Richard counted off the number of trails leading away from the monument. The board said eight, but he found six. Based on nothing more than the size of the gaps between the paths he identified, he located the missing trails.

With no reason to remain, Richard set out for the next identifiable place. He counted four breaks to his right, grateful it was one of the marked paths. He wanted to arrive at Golden Diamond Athletic Field by dusk.

Each time the trail went uphill, he crawled to the summit. Richard's outfit acted as camouflage in the city. In this park, it turned into a neon sign lit at night. He didn't want to announce his presence to anyone on the blind side of the hill. It slowed him down, but Richard considered it a prudent move.

His caution saved him when he crested the latest hill. A short distance away, perhaps the length of a football field, he found his objective. Another person stood next to the cornucopia. Two more tributes exited the mouth of the structure. The three tributes kept vigilant with one always visible on his side.

He kept lying on the grass near a bush that offered him an excellent vantage point. Richard couldn't delay too long. He knew where to find three of the surviving four tributes. Either the other one hadn't arrived or stayed out of sight.

As the sun lowered, the three tributes built a fire from material within the metal horn of plenty. All three tributes gathered closer. Even from his distance, he saw them cooking a hearty meal. His mouth watered while his imagination ran amok conjuring up what they ate.

Night settled in and Richard crept closer. He must wait for the right opportunity and rush them. Kill one, retreat, and hope the others remained too far away to assist his target. Eliminate one and the Game Master wouldn't force a confrontation.

The three remained together, alert, and armed. He continued slithering closer. Sooner or later, somebody had to sleep. When the odds went down to two on one, he had to strike.

Above him, the energy grid appeared. In a moment, the music would play and the pictures of the fallen would be projected across the sky. Since the cannon never sounded, tonight's show would be a repeat.

Time to revise his plan. Richard took a three point stand, the metal ball held in his raised hand with the handle's strap over his wrist. The music played and the sky displayed its tribute to the dead. He knew the order of the pictures and remembered the girl with the pig tails appeared two pictures before the show ended. That would be his signal.

She appeared. Richard launched himself at the three tributes. By the time Susanna's picture disappeared, he reached full speed. The metal ball dropped from his hand. All he needed was another five seconds. Let them stand close to one another a little longer.

He concentrated on the girl. She carried a slingshot and proved herself an expert with the weapon during their training classes. Richard needed to eliminate her as the greatest threat first. She wouldn't miss if he did. The others he would evade.

His left arm went out stiff, his palm aiming for the boy standing to his left. The way the fellow bounced from one foot to another, Richard knew he could knock him down without any trouble. The one question uppermost in his mind: How fast would they react once he struck?

They continued watching the sky. Just three more steps and all hell would break loose. In the span of one step, he relived a training session when he first joined the school's football team. The coaches drilled it into his head until he did it without thinking. When you decide to hit something, don't flinch. Do that and the opponent might evade you and score. Worse, hitting your target might cause you an injury.

 _Fourth down, all or nothing. A touchdown is the least of my worries, coach_.

Contact. The nearest male tribute might have weight and height on his side, but he lacked balance. Richard's arm smashed into his opponent's rib cage at an upward angle. The tribute went flying off to the left, screaming a warning even as he fell.

Richard's right arm moved fast, his mind concentrating on his forearm swing and his intended point of contact. The collision with the other tribute didn't register. The girl's body reacted to the impact, flying off in a different direction. He raced between his victim and the second male tribute as the cannon boomed.

The backswing lacked accuracy and the killing power he wanted. It didn't matter. The metal ball hit somewhere and the second male tribute let out a loud shriek. The tribute followed his scream with a long string of four-lettered words that would blister paint off any wall.

He dove into the fire and hit the ground rolling through the flames. Richard didn't stop his roll until he had his feet under him. He bolted away, hoping to put distance between him and the remaining tributes.

His two opponents reacted faster than he expected. The tribute he stiff armed drew his broadsword and gave chase. Richard's dive saved him. The blade whistled through the air where his head was a second earlier.

Tribute number one had both reach and strength. His one disadvantage was the unwieldy weapon. It took all his effort to swing the heavy broadsword, and once committed to a specific path, it couldn't be altered. Richard had the agility, but his weapon had the same drawback. In a one on one duel, it would be decided by stamina. This tribute rested all day while Richard hiked. The odds favored him.

Number two held a short sword, a close quarters weapon. Richard had the reach and figured he could defeat him if not for his partner. Even as the second tribute limped forward, the first one shouted instructions. Each time Richard tried breaking to the right, the broadsword forced him left.

Two against one, not what Richard wanted. Despite the slow pace of the one teenager, their teamwork kept him on the defensive. Richard tried retreating towards the flames, hoping his speed might give him one shot at the injured teen. They moved in tandem, leaving him nowhere to go but against the cornucopia's metallic walls.

A vicious swing and an even slower reaction drew first blood in their duel. The broadsword sliced through fabric and skin leaving a bloody line across his chest. When the fellow drew back his arm for another slash, Richard lashed out with his foot. The blow caught the fellow on his hip, but without sufficient force to do more than make him backpedal two steps. The teen cursed. A cannon boomed.

Surprised by the sound, the teen turned towards his partner. The other tribute dropped his sword and collapsed in slow motion. For just that instant, Richard's opponent held his weapon stationary. Richard took full advantage of the unexpected distraction. The metal ball hit the sword's wide face, sending it flying from the tribute's grip.

Richard's backswing struck just below the teen's ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Before he recovered his breath, Richard brought the metal ball down on his opponent's neck. For the third time that night, the cannon signaled another tribute's death.

"Hello brother. Somehow, I had a feeling it would come down to us."

John stepped into the light. He twirled his trident and rammed its three tongs into the ground. He held onto the staff, one foot raised just clear of the ground. Richard felt himself torn in two. The limp said easy kill, but unlike the other tributes, John was still family.

"Let's call a truce, for tonight. We tend to our injuries, have a good night's sleep and finish this tomorrow. How does that sound, Ritchie?"

"I'm not a morning person, so let's have that final duel at high noon. As to the truce, I agree, a truce it is, Big J."

"High noon? And you always called me the melodramatic one in the family."

They entered the mouth of the cornucopia. The interior reminded Richard of the work booths back at school with each station identified by a sign. Richard discarded his torn shirt as he took a seat at medical. Once he pressed his palm against the glass labeled power, the workstation became operational. His fingers tapped at the keyboard as he answered the various questions appearing on the monitor. Lights flashed and a panel opened. He moved to another chair where he applied the medical gel over the long gash in his chest.

John sat at the medical console and repeated the same sign-in procedure. Where he had to hunt for each letter, John did no more than look at the monitor. His fingers flew across the keypad. Like before, a series of lights flashed and the appropriate material appeared. John removed his shoe and tended to his foot.

"According to the monitor, we cannot use the medical station for another twenty-four hours, Ritchie. Not that I think both of us will be here that long."

"No such limitation on the water fountain. Never realized just how good cold water could taste."

The two of them talked long into the night until John suggested they get some rest. Richard should have been wary since he defeated his brother every time they had a physical confrontation. This would be the perfect opportunity for deception. That wasn't part of John's personality; he slept in peace.

The sound of grease crackling woke him. A glance around the interior first, no brother. He stepped outside to find John cooking over a small fire. The smell of food overpowered whatever caution the game instilled.

"There must be a live feed from those computers. I asked for double portions, claimed I wanted to have a hot meal for two. How does two eggs, a breakfast patty, and a bagel sound, Ritchie?"

"Something tells me I don't have much of a choice about the menu."

They talked about their experiences up to this moment. It seemed so idealistic, but Richard knew it couldn't last. Thirty-six tributes started this game. Two remained and just one could claim the title of victor. He had hoped the final duel would be with somebody else, removing any personal connection. Turned out John didn't expect him to reach the end either, a sobering thought.

"Before we fight, you'll need a small shield; you're too exposed, Ritchie."

 _That's my brother, always considering the other guy_.

A short visit to the weapons station and he had what he needed. Once outside, he retreated to the far side of the field. When his brother came out, he went to the opposite end. The image of a boxing ring and opposite corners brought a smile to his face. For the moment, he enjoyed the warm sun and the smell of grass.

John stood. Richard raised his weapon until John mimicked his move. When he brought his weapon down to his side, John advanced. They drew closer until John stood opposite the tail end of the metallic horn of plenty and he at the mouth. Fifteen yards between them, and he hesitated.

His brother shuffled forward, the trident weaving a figure eight. Richard knew the front foot did all the twisting and the back one allowed him to lunge. John kept his injured foot to the rear, which reduced his power.

Richard took a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable clash. A slight catch, perhaps his injury hadn't healed overnight too. That made their battle a contest between equals. He could almost hear the crowds cheering for their favorite.

A flick of the wrist sent the morning star's metal ball into the trident, knocking it to the side. John retreated a step, regained control of his weapon, and made a quick thrust. Mentally, Richard thanked John for the suggestion of a shield. Twice the small shield deflected the trident's tongs. He circled his brother, hoping for an opening.

The trident jabbed forward in a low arc, aimed for his belly. His counterattack had the metal ball wrapping itself around the central tong and the shaft. John pulled back and threw his body against the cornucopia. Richard couldn't fight so much leverage. Both weapons flew over the cornucopia.

No time for retrieving his morning star, best he keep John disarmed. Richard's left hand grabbed his brother's right wrist. While he tried twisting the hand, he went for his knife. John reacted by grabbing his wrist. Each of them tried to gain the necessary leverage.

Richard rammed his knee into his brother's gut. His arm brought the knife between them, the point resting on John's heart. He took a quick step back, enough to pull his brother forward. With a powerful lunge, he drove his brother into the unyielding metal side of the cornucopia. A cannon boomed, as the echo died, the sound of French horns played a triumphant cord.

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Fiftieth Capital Hunger Game has a victor."


	16. POST GAME INTERVIEW

The disembodied voice whispered in her ear. "Commercial ends in five . . . four . . . three. . . "

"Welcome viewers to the second half of our Fiftieth Capital Game Review Show. I'm sure everyone will wish Mister Oren a wonderful retirement after a thirty-two year career with the Capital Games, thirteen as the man who made it all possible. As promised, we have the winner of this year's game and I do hope I pronounce this name right, John Fortisivite."

Joyce Leggings stood by her chair and turned to her left. She joined the audience as they applauded her announcement. Joyce hoped her special guest developed a touch of stage fright like all the previous victors did when they saw the live audience. She preferred such anxiety as it allowed her to exert her dominance onstage.

The curtain parted and a teenaged boy stepped onto the stage. He hesitated there for a moment, raised his hand, and waved to the onlookers. His smile reminded her of a politician running for office, fake. He played to what the crowd wanted and they loved it. John pointed at a few and blew the selected lady a kiss. The crowd's reaction, a thunderous applause.

John strolled across the stage as if he owned it. He upstaged her with his display of confidence with nothing more than a dramatic entrance. Like her prior guest, they shook hands, but then he did the unthinkable. Instead of sitting, he waved her to her chair and hesitated a second before he took his.

"I must say Joyce, your command of Latin is commendable and so unexpected from somebody raised in the Districts. How long did it take you to master the pronunciation," John inquired.

 _Damn this Capital brat, he's got me on the defensive, but easily corrected_. "Manners young man. Your status as Victor doesn't grant you such familiarity with your elders. Address me as Miss Leggings."

"And I thought we could talk like good friends. Very well, Miss Leggings, do you have specific questions or just my overall impressions? This broadcast has a limited time, let's not waste it on unimportant things."

Joyce took a second to look down at the cue cards she made prior to the interview. If she tried using them, she would appear unprepared. Joyce stuffed the cards into the seam between the seat cushion and the chair's back support, her back hiding them from the camera's view. Once again, this upstart grabbed her spotlight. She hated him for it.

"My thoughts exactly. Let's stick to the highlights. I'm sure our audience is curious what went through your mind when the game first started."

Every Victor she interviewed after the game needed prompting. It made it easier to direct the interview where she wanted it by dominating the camera. But not this time. This teen had a talent for stealing her spotlight with just a simple statement that placed him in a commanding position.

Her stage crew knew their job. A tape ran of the launch tube lifting in the cavern and the rope ladders dropping. When the horn sounded, John stiff armed the tributes to his left and right while chasing the one who avoided the entangled bodies. John's foot clipped the girl's ankle and she too collapsed. The tape ended with him climbing out of the underground cavern.

"Game Master Oren said it earlier. This being the Second Quell, he gave the game two special twists. He hid the cornucopia and changed the way we interacted with sponsors. When I saw that rope, I figured the cornucopia was above ground. With all the tributes in that cave the fastest up would get the prize," said John. "I expected the slowest to be knocked off those rope ladders and my time wasn't the best during the training sessions."

"Shall we watch what happened next," Joyce purred. It might have sounded like a question, but her voice made it a command.

One female tribute struggled to reach the surface when the second timer reached zero. Flames erupted. The pony-tailed tribute flew in the air and landed close to John. The tape revealed extensive burns below her arms and the odd angle of her legs showed the fall had broken them in several places. She screamed. John lifted a nearby rock and killed her by repeatedly dropping the heavy stone on her head until the cannon boomed.

"It was a kindness," said John. "Nothing could stop her pain."

"Indeed," Joyce said while patting John's leg. "I'm sure everyone saw that as a true act of mercy. But let's push on, how did you discover the location of the sponsor's station so fast? Everyone who survived that first minute took as long as two days to do what you did in less than an hour. Several died never finding it."

"I credit my success to my mother's love of Latin."

"You're not telling us anything," Joyce growled. The Victor might be the star, but they needed her. At least she did until this upstart stole the show with his air of mystery. He had the audience listening to him, not her. Worse yet, she followed his lead.

"When the flames shot off, the other tributes scattered," said John. "After I ended that one girl's suffering, I checked my surroundings and found an arrow reading "Quis vos peto." That's Latin for what you seek. A short walk down the street and I found a store sign, "Tergum hic," backers here."

"Such an intelligent child," Joyce cooed. She faced the audience and asked for their reaction, which resulted in a round of applause. "Things remained pretty dull until Day Four, didn't it?"

John laughed, then faced the studio audience. "I liked dull. Dull meant nobody tried to kill me. But you cannot avoid every battle. Why not play the tape and ask your questions afterwards?"

The tape showed two male teens fighting a female tribute. They had her hard pressed and their machetes were getting through her defense. John came across the battle from a side street and charged into the fray. He used his trident like a spear, burying the tines into the side of the nearest male tribute.

His sudden appearance distracted the girl. She hesitated, which gave the second male tribute his opportunity. That tribute used his weapon like an ax, chopping deep into the girl's right shoulder. John freed his weapon and plunge it into the boy's chest before he could free his weapon. The boom of the cannon confirmed his death.

John rushed to the girl's side, working the blade free. He sliced the shirt off the nearest male tribute and fashioned a bandage. The blood flow slowed, but did not stop. The shirt turned into a crimson rag. The girl held onto John with her uninjured arm.

"Would you do something for me? Please," the girl begged. Once John promised to do whatever she asked, she spoke through gritted teeth. "Make my death clean and quick. I don't want to go down like a rabbit chased by a pack of mad dogs."

John sliced the shirt off the other dead body and tried to staunch the flow. "I can stop the bleeding."

"My shoulder is destroyed, even a hospital would need more than a month to fix me. I'm not getting that much time, all I can do is die with dignity. Win this game so others will never forget my name. Remember me, Rebecca Reservita."

He repeated her name, twice. She bowed, exposing her neck. John picked up the machete and raised it over his head. For the third time, he spoke her name. His powerful chop did its job, the cannon verifying the efficiency of his stroke. He did not leave her body until he could no longer cry. As he walked away, he spoke her name one final time.

The monitor went dark and Joyce turned to her guest. "I see you are the compassionate one in your family, not at all like Richard. The game turned him into a real monster."

Again the monitor came to life. This time it showed John's brother with his Molotov Cocktail a few seconds before he used it. The dumpster lid opened to reveal the terrified expressions of two children seconds before the glass shattered. As it faded to black, it focused on Richard's face. It displayed no emotion while he walked away from the screaming children.

"You put thirty-six kids in an arena, tell us just one can survive, and you have the audacity to call us monsters? If you want to see a real monster, check the mirror, lady."

"And on that note, let's break for commercial."

Joyce dropped her professional voice as she leaned closer to John. "Say something like that one more time and I guarantee you a fatal accident somewhere between here and the train station. Don't worry, I'll be sure to shed a few tears during the announcement."

She leaned back into her chair, facing the full studio crowd, knowing none heard her reprimand of John. Offstage, her producer warned her the mike was now active. Joyce hesitated a second, as if caught off guard while having a private conversation with the victor. She knew the professional smile she used on camera was all the viewers saw.

"Welcome back everyone. As our Victor pointed out, time is limited and we're all curious how you located the cornucopia.

"Game Master Oren emphasized this being the sixtieth anniversary of the successful conclusion to the Mockingjay Rebellion. I checked the billboard and noticed the Golden Diamond Athletic Field. The yellow diamond represents the traditional sixtieth anniversary and gold is yellow. Turns out I was right."

"Speaking of right, before the game you told us the next battle between you and your brother would end differently. So how did you defeat your brother in that last battle?"

"Adrenaline, desperation, damn good luck. Take your pick," John said.

"What about his last words? How did they affect you?"

"Both of us were fighting for survival, there wasn't time for idle talk."

"You don't remember? Fortunately, we enhanced the audio portion prior to this show, something we couldn't do during your epic battle. Now we can reveal those final words and get your reaction."

Joyce sat back in her chair, the monitor playing the final battle. The two brothers came together a second before Richard pushed John into the metal cornucopia. The camera remained focused on Richard's back. The tape's audio portion came through the speakers, loud and clear.

"You're just a wannabe warrior, an easy kill," Richard asserted.

John just shook his head. "Like I said, we were fighting for our lives. All my attention remained focused on keeping his knife away from my heart. I never heard him say this or anything else. Without hearing this tape, I would swear he said nothing."

Joyce stood. "And on that note, we bring the Fiftieth Capital Game Review Show to its conclusion. Until next year, may the odds be ever in your favor."


	17. THE FINAL SECRET

"My mentor met me offstage and gave me the proverbial bum's rush out the back exit to the waiting limo. He dropped into the seat next to me, quite upset. Somehow he knew about her threat and wanted me out of there before I could say anything more."

John brought his empty tea cup up to his forehead, enjoying the heat. The sun shone through the canopy of the rail car as they raced to their final destination, District Thirteen. In another hour, the train would reach Victor's Village, a home far from his prior life.

Another change since the Mockingjay Revolution. Nobody from the other districts wanted to give anyone a chance to organize a resistance. Such a rebellion might lead to a third civil war. Panem couldn't afford it so they removed the Game's winner figuring distance caused alienation.

"Thank you, Victor, for such an interesting tale. You have done your brother a great honor, Sir."

 _Victor? Sir?_ When John opened his eyes, the porter stood at attention, the dishrag hanging over his arm. Something had changed. He turned in his chair, looking towards the stairway he climbed a lifetime ago.

They stood there on the top landing. The divorce may have been amiable as far as the courts knew, but those were contentious days within their home. Now, none would ever guess them divorced. Each held onto the arm of the other, bound by a past both tragic and joyous.

"Mom, Dad, how long have you been there," John asked.

"Not long, long enough, too long, take your pick," his mother said.

"So what brings you here?"

"The President announced he would be addressing the Capital District in less than an hour. All Capital residents must watch. When we didn't find you in your room, we asked a porter where you were. They directed us here."

John chuckled. "I'm the Victor and we're going to District Thirteen. Those directives no longer apply to us."

"Would you really like to risk it," his father asked.

That's when the porter interrupted. "There's no need to go elsewhere; this car is equipped with a satellite television. We can watch the broadcast here."

While his parents found a seat, the porter retreated behind the bar. A panel receded, revealing a large screen television. John had just finished his introductions with the two girls when a familiar voice shouted up the stairway.

John rushed to the side of his mentor, introducing him to the others. Just as the gentleman sat, another former victor came upstairs and introduced himself. For one victor, the girls remembered their father's instructions but not for every male victor. Their eyes devoured them.

All had taken a seat when a lady climbed the stairs. She hesitated at the top landing. John understood why she appeared so nervous. Where the other mentors stood tall, she kept her head bowed.

"Greetings all, my name is Victoria Spesago. I'm the senior mentor, having won the Twenty-fifth Capital Hunger Game. It was my pleasure to mentor your son, Richard. My condolences for your loss. If you prefer that I go somewhere else, I'll understand."

Never had John been prouder of his father. He said not a word as he walked over to the lady. He offered her his arm and escorted her to his vacant chair. Once she sat, he gave her a fatherly kiss on the forehead and found another seat.

An unseen commentator introduced President Al Incon. The screen showed an older gentleman sitting behind a desk devoid of all papers. He pulled several sheets from his inbox, centered them on his desk, and glanced at the camera. Perhaps he didn't know they were broadcasting as he continued staring at them for several seconds.

"Greeting to all those in the Capital District who have risen an hour before the dawn. I shall be brief."

"The emblem of our nation is the eagle, but I have always seen it as the phoenix. Like that bird of legend, Panem rose from the ashes of the great powers of North America. Sadly, the bird fell ill and it died in the first great civil war. With the Treaty of Treason, the phoenix again rose, but with a grave illness none recognized."

"When the Mockingjay Revolution conquered the old Capital District, the phoenix rose once more. Unlike the legendary bird, he carried the same disease that infected him before the uprising. That which so fired the people's wrath against the old rulers, the Hunger Games, continued."

"No treaty extended the life of this blood sport. An executive order amended the old treaty. Today, I shall do the same." The camera pulled back, watching the President sign the document on his desk. "By executive order, I hereby terminate the Capital Hunger Game and dissolve the bureaucracy that makes it possible."

"Once more the phoenix has died. I urge all within the Capital District to go outside this morning as it again rises from its black ashes. This time the phoenix is free of the disease that infected his last two reincarnations. We must unite as a people or face another bloody civil war. Let us reconcile our differences and rebuild our great nation. It will not happen in a day, week, or month. It will take years, but as we watch the phoenix take wing, we shall begin the healing."

The screen shifted to a panel of news commentators. Thankfully, the porter killed the television. All sat there in stunned silence as the wooden panel rose, hiding the screen. Something that defined their existence snuffed out by a casual stroke of the pen. It took time to assimilate the change.

John stood, took his empty cup and saluted the hidden television. "You were more prophetic than you thought, dear brother."

His father asked for an explanation. For a few moments, John kept standing, his cup still held high. He lowered his cup, placing it on the table. He turned to his attentive audience.

"Did you notice how the camera showed Richard's back seconds before he died? If they showed his face, somebody might read his lips and realize the commentator lied. Those were not his final words and I never controlled the knife. Richard twisted the blade towards his heart just before he pushed us into the side of the cornucopia."

The meaning of his words drained all the color from his father's face. "What were my son's final words?"

"Habemus bello dux noster."

John's mother translated Richard's final words. "We have warriors, be our leader."


End file.
